To my left to my left, put everything you own in a box to my left ...

My travels around town exhausted me. Here - two women, half naked, with faces distorted and swollen by cheap alcohol. There - a man with no limbs. To my right, a car-guard who walked from Rwanda. On the left - a mother pimping her child, shames motorists into giving more. Up ahead: Big Issue sellers, joke retailers, roadside florists, avocado pear merchants, strawberry salesmen.

I'm worn out. Nothing I do can fix this. I'm fresh out of change.

But somebody's got tin. Graft, thievery, gravy-trainism, private and Presidential family-enrichment, cronyism... go on. And on. Constantly questioned by the media. Never answered by the ANC.

It's become a national joke. Even showing up in a radio advertisement:

Politico: "Comrades - We must nationalise the mines.

Comrades: "Yes. Yeah. Yebo. Yeah Man."

"We must limit the media.

Yes. Yeah, Yebo. Yeah Man!

And Comrades - we must share the wealth.

Aiiie, Suga, man, it's our wealth. Now you are going too far."

A friend tells of being threatened on his tomato farm - "give me half and I will allow you to stay on the land"; his price for refusal - poisoned water holes.

Another mourns the loss of a pineapple farm. His local councillor, when refused a 'free' 50% share of the farm - simply dug up the access roads . Halting the farm trucks. Sending 348 people - workers and their families, flocking to the nearest traffic lights.

Gareth Cliff, a South African DJ, wrote an open letter on his blog to President Jacob Zuma this week (www.garethcliff.com/ Dear Government). He wants to know how things have gone so wrong. Gareth is blunt, he is pissed off and he is right. He calls JZ and his Crew out on a range of issues. Which, according to the angry many, makes him a racist. Because Gareth is white.

I can't look up from my steering wheel anymore but I'm afraid to look down . The depth of this bullshit gives me vertigo.

Let's Have A Cuppa

I was at the traffic lights today when a young woman thrust this pamphlet through the window. I took it - and looked up to find her watching me through the windscreen. She was about 25, dressed to pull and in full make-up - at 11am. I was in my yoga gear on the way home from a gruelling astanga class. No make-up.

"Do you think I need it?"
"Mamma, these days we all need it. Especially the mens."

Gives a whole new meaning to "Made in China"

Hollow, the Leader

Leader arrived on a Thursday in the pouring rain. He stood calling from the gate - and asked if he could wash my car. He was coughing horribly and drenched. I gave him some breakfast, tea and milk, soup and bread to take home. I added in R50 for the day clinic and told him to come back on Saturday, if the sun was shining, with a certificate from the clinic to say he did not have TB and then he could wash my car.

Which he did. He was TB free - but had a lung infection. So I fed him, he washed my car (beautifully) and I gave him money for his medicine and R50 for the car-wash.

Over the past four months he has come back regularly. Each time he cleans my car, and my brother's if it is there, gets some breakfast, some provisions and heads off into the Cape Town day.

A few weeks ago I tried to give him some groceries and he said he didn't need them. He had enough as his business was picking up. If he did take them, he said, he would only give them to the Zimbabwean guys who were sleeping rough near his shack. And he didn't feel it was right to take from me to do that. I said - take them and feed the others. I believe in paying favour forward. He said so did he.

One Saturday he asked if I would loan him R100 so he could pay off the final instalment of a lay-bye he had made at a clothes store. He showed me the receipt. And promised he would come back and clean both cars to pay it off. I said I would take him at his word. He came back, twice. He paid his debt.

Mark told me the other day that a cap was missing from the trunk of his car. He believed it was Leader as Leader was the only person, other than Mark, who had been in his trunk. I wouldn't believe it and listed all the reasons why I trusted Leader. Mark was initially adamant, it had to be Leader. But then after a few days - became less convinced. And we let it drop.

But something niggled. I keep change in my car which I use to buy the Big Issue or the Weekly Jokes from traffic light vendors. A couple times in the past; I had reached for the cash and found it not there, and just written it off as having been used up. But now I wasn't so sure.

So, I set a trap. I planted a R10 note in the centre console, and two R5 notes in my change dish. I even took a photo of what I had done so I could be sure I would be able to prove it. When Leader arrived today, I welcomed him. Opened the car, made him breakfast, chatted about his week. All as normal.

When he was finished I went to pay him and "realised" I didn't have R50 change. No problem, I said - I have some in my car. The flash across his face told me all I needed to know. He watched as I got into the car and looked for the money. And answered honestly when I queried where it was. I asked for it back and he took it from his purse.

Leader asked me to give him a second chance.
'This is your second chance, last week you took a hat from Mark's car'.
He stared: 'Yes, I did.'
'And the money - this isn't the first time with the money either?'
A mixture of expressions chased across his face: annoyance at his own stupidity, a realisation of what was about to happen, entreaty, a smidgen of guilt. But no shame.

He kept asking for another chance, but this time - this first time since I have been living here ... I was adamant: 'No - I tried to do my best by you and you stole from me. For you to do it once - that means you think I am stupid. For you to keep doing it - that means you think I am a fool.'

So, I paid him for his work. And sent him on his way. He looked at me with a rueful smile as he left and said: 'So, Sue, goodbye. Enjoy your life.'

Indecent proposals

I've spent the last month sending out proposals for funding for the Positive Heroes Ultra-Marathon Team. Five, HIV+ Individuals, who run some of the world's toughest endurance races (including the 90km Comrades marathon), who take their ARVs on the run, who sometimes train on empty stomachs, and who refuse to let a diagnosis define them.

The team work in their communities as 'walk it as we talk it' counsellors. They role model a more optimistic version of life with HIV than the usual gloomy message.

After all, they should know what's possible and what's not. They run ULTRA-MARATHONS for God's sake! Running a marathon is a huge ask of any body, and an Ultra even more so - imagine the ask of a body whose immune system is compromised. Could there be a better way of demonstrating that HIV is not a death sentence?

Evie, Ken, Masi, Willie and Barb don't think there is. So we take the message; in the form of fit, bright eyed, saucy-humoured runners, out to the communities that surround these races. And they tell their stories, and take questions and bring hope.

But it's expensive - and we're a small NGO - so we can't afford to keep doing it without help.

To that end, I do hours of research. I fill in applications, I make countless calls and photo copies. I pare words down until they fit electronic forms. And I send them off. Then I follow up - by email, by phone, by email, by phone, by email ... you get the picture.

Nothing comes back. Not even a form letter telling us to take a hike. Nothing. Sweet F-A.

It's not as if I'm asking for a fortune - R80k ($11K, £7K). Actually, no, that's not even my point. It's the principle. The proposals I have been sending are directed to an individual by name. To the individual who does the job concerned. I'm offering them to become involved with a key health issue in our country, one that affects every business. And I am offering them to become involved in a positive, forward thinking, simple, healthy way.

And they don't have the decency to answer me. WTF? I used to get a good couple hundred emails every week. They always got answered. There's no excuse.

But, I refuse to quit. After all - I've learned, from five of the VERY best, how to run a marathon.

Getting in-touchy

My pal Maurits has closed his Facebook account. He felt it was becoming a chore, a burden and allowed too many extraneous people into his life. He said he wondered how many people would notice. At the time he told me all this - only two had.

At the same time, Claudia (The Accidental Chef) has decided to stop blogging for a while. She wants to recharge her writing batteries. Fair enough, but I notice this decision has come hot on the heels of criticism she received from a 'Professional Writer'. Now, she's a more traditional bird (in some ways) than I and she respects the opinion of academics. But his (apparently well-written, but) unkind comments, have made her question herself. She's doubting that what she writes is good enough for the world to read. She has kept journals as long as I have known her: and it never bothered her what anyone thought of those entries.

I have a couple of blogs. A facebook account, a dormant twitter account and I'm linkd-in. I have wi-fi at home (which some bastard has been hacking into). I also carry a cell-phone - two when I am working for Positive Heroes. I don't have a blackberry - but that's just because I am not entitled to one on my very basic and archaic calling-plan in SA. (Plus I am cheap and don't want to spend a bunch of money 'trading-up' to one). Soon as I can, though, I will be back on the crack - carrying my email, facebook, blogs and the entire weight of the internet with me.

And I am wondering why? Is it because I want people to know what I am up to at all times: no it is not. Is it because I want people to be able to contact me at all times: hell no. I like being in touch with the friends I have in different parts of the world. Even if it is just in soundbites or updates. But I think Maurits has a point. I feel guilty when I haven't updated my status. Remiss when I haven't posted. I feel like I am letting someone, somewhere down.

So, my question is: has modern communication opened us up, only to bog us down?

Two Lifts

The First:

I pick up Martin and Diana on Sunday morning. They are on their way to church in Concordia: “the black location next to the white location”. Martin has his ‘good’ suit on. His shoes are hand-shined. His tie and shirt are bright. Diana wears a traditional long skirt in blue shweshwe with a white starched shirt. Her hair is covered by a doek and she smiles shyly at me in the rear-view mirror. Martin and Diana look beautiful together. They both carry bibles.

They met in a home for abandoned children. Martin’s mother’s boyfriend (“Not, my real father”,) beat her up so bad one time, she had to run away and she left them behind. Martin and his sister and brother. Martin was six. He didn’t mind living in the home. They had food and friends. And they were together there. And he found his wife there.

Diana’s mother had disappeared one night and it wasn’t until a month later that someone thought to look for her. And found the children. Diana smiled– “but we had food enough from the neighbours”. The social workers came to fetch them on a Friday and they never went back.

Martin took up bad habits when he had to leave the home. Drinking and smoking. It was a lot. Then one morning he woke up and realised he wanted to change. Just like that. He could hear a voice in his heart that was telling him to walk together with Jesus – so he gave it a try. And, 7 years on – he felt things were finally falling into place.

Some things. Diana and him had no children. She had been pregnant four times – and four miscarriages. The first time was the worst because it was at five months and a friend had knocked her over and she had fallen on her belly and crushed the baby. “He was a boy”. But they were going to keep trying – because it was God’s will. And, yes, maybe, if it didn’t happen they would go back to the home where they met and make some of the children there, their own. It would be like a big circle.

Things are coming together now, Martin says. “But we have such debt.” Diana smiles again: “God will help us, but meantime we must work”, she says.

I wind back through the township. And I ponder faith and hope. And religion. And I remember Walt Whitman’s words: “Argue not concerning God”. And I resolve never to again.

Because – on this day of rest, in this place of thousands, where goats and shacks cling to rubbish dumps, where toddlers roam pantless and parentless, where taverns outnumber churches, in this place and for these people: Jesus does seem to be the only possible answer.

The Second:

I pick up the women on a 10km stretch of road which heads towards nothing but a National Park. The older one is badly out of breath, two small children hug her skirts. The younger one has one baby swaddled tight, despite the heat. Another jogs along beside her. I practice my tiny bit of Xhosa on them and glean that they are on the way to the doctor. The baby is sick.

“Doctor – out here?” I ask. “Eweh”. “A clinic doctor?” “No, one of our doctors. The traditional one.” I nod – what is wrong with the baby? The younger woman looks straight at me and I realise she is about 15. “The baby is not crying”.

The three kids in the front are having a ball. Eyes and grins fixed on me. “Mamma – are these your children?” I ask the older. “No – they are the children of my brother and my sister. But they are late. They have been gone two years.” I look at her in the mirror – she drops her eyes. But the younger holds my gaze. “I will be happy to take you to town to the clinic for the baby”, I offer. The older woman says something in Xhosa that I don’t catch, but I understand.

I drop them at their destination and, as I drive on: I ask Jesus if he is planning to come around here anytime soon?

Denial is not just a river in Egypt

Dear Pope Benedict,

There's no nice way of saying this, Joe, but you have become the Ken Lay of Catholicism. And whilst Ken managed to avoid punishment by dying before he was sentenced - you'll not be so lucky. If I remember the rules right - you will be damned for all eternity and consigned to the fires of hell.

If you keep looking the other way.

I was raised Catholic but I haven't been to a mass in decades. And I have to own to being at odds with the hard positions Catholicism takes on most issues: abortion, divorce, homosexuality, hell ... to name a few. The World has moved on - and you need to as well. We no longer live in tents and closed societies where behaviour is policed by the community and wrong-doers are dealt with according to a parochial and patriarchal system of law. Men are also no longer able to treat women as their possessions, to trade in children, to murder whoever they choose and call it war (though, granted, that particular envelope is constantly being pushed).

We hold ourselves to higher standards now. Man-made standards. And not those of an omnipresent being whose earthly representatives will not tolerate two people of the same sex being in love, but who seem to be absolutely fine with child pornography and molestation.

I know many Catholics who are deeply ashamed of the "ass in the air" position you have taken on the child abuse that has been happening. I went to Catholic schools and I know not every priest indulges in these unspeakable acts. But the good men, the ones who truly believe they have a responsibility to their congregations, these men are being tarred by the same despicable and filthy brush as the men you are currently hiding behind your papal habit.

Joseph: your misguided loyalty is killing the Church.

And as for Belgium last week - have you learned nothing since April? Officers of the Church are not immune to public scrutiny. You are not above the law. A friend of a friend, responding to the press reports of the raid in Leuven referred to the Catholic Church as a "Disgusting Institution". I found that shocking. I know too many good, decent, generous and caring Catholics to render them all perverts. You must give them their dignity and their faith back.

Take advice from people who have dealt with war-crime tribunals and convene your own. Because this is war. You are fighting for the survival of the Church you lead. Be transparent in your process. Apologise, accept responsibility. Deal with the fall-out. See this as an opportunity to breathe new life, modernise, let go of the archaic.

While there is still time.

If you need any help, let me know. I have some fresh, innovative ideas that will help move a re-invention right along. But, first, you need stop pretending this is not happening. If you can't - resign. Because, right now, it's time for you to step up or step out.

As the nuns always told me: what doesn't kill, makes you stronger. And they should know.

SUE

Reconsidering A Vanity Affair

So, I spent part of the day getting rid of old magazines. Mostly design, fashion, travel. And Vanity Fair. Looking through the six issues I had lying around, it struck me that VF is not the cutting edge commentator it used to be.

Now that small Bush is out of business; Graydon Carter (VF Ed.) has become infatuated with the good ole boys and bad bankers of Wall Street. With Tim Geithner coming in for particularly sticky-fingered attention. Plenty, plenty wordage on all of that. Most of it incomprehensible to financial lightweights like me.

Then there are endless incursions into the lives of arbitrary royal or monied families who have behaved like asses towards each other. And go-nowhere homages to people like Grace Kelly. I mean, really - Grace Kelly? Plus an eight-pager on the girl who plays Hermione in Harry Potter. Oh, and a 10 page story about state dinners at the White House.

Seriously Graydon - am I missing something here?

We also had A.A. Gil explaining football to us idiot readers. Excuse me - I mean soccer - A.A. (so small minded they named him twice) insists we are not allowed to call it football. He said why but, frankly, I lost interest three paragraphs in and started looking at the photos of all these young guys who earn a bloody fortune. Annie Leibovitz did a sterling job. The fellas look like they're worth every penny.

My favourite is one of Christiano Ronaldo. Leibovitz has shot him against a studio backdrop. Poised to kick a ball. Shirt off, body sculpted - concentrating hard. The boy is built like a god.

But that's not why I like the photograph. Dolores Aveiro, Christiano's mum, is in the studio doorway watching. She is a tiny woman; dwarfed by the warehouse. She stands alone, looking up at her son. Her hand covers her mouth, as if in disbelief that she could have played a part in creating this man. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

VF apparently pays Annie a $1million retainer every year. She's also worth every cent.

But the celeb who has come in for the mostest and bestest special attention from Graydon is Tiger Woods. Three separate issues. Long, long articles. First cover portrays Tiger as a delicious thug. All brooding and dangerous. Black beanie pulled low over his forehead. Trademark scowl. Eyes hard to camera. Ms Leibovitz saw something that day most of us had missed for decades.

In case we missed it again - Graydon and his folks brought us: "The Mystery of a Sports Superstar We Thought We Knew". Inside; more moody pictures of Tiger accompanied a sensationalist skinning of golf's once-favourite cat.

But that's not all folks. Two more issues featured arty shots of the mistresses. All women who look like his wife. Well - who look like hyper-drive-sexed-up-boobylicious-versions of Elin. Mark Seliger certainly didn't hold back. His pics include one of an Adult-Film star relaxing alongside a pool with a tiger loping along in the background.

The writer tells us the girls all thought Tiger was in love with them. What? They are all either stupid or complicit or ... stupid. Tiger is a great athlete. Some say the best ever. But he is a guy with an insatiable appetite to succeed. To conquer. What did you expect?

Elin undoubtedly had her expectations - but then that's her business. Vanity Fair made it ours. They brought us every graphic detail - anal sex and all. Reading the stories again, back-to-back, left me feeling cheap and ashamed.

What to do? I have a subscription to VF that has another seven months to run. Non-refundable. This month's issue has the regulation hagiography of some hedge-fund genius in one article. John Paulson is name-dropped in another. And Christopher Hitchens makes the bizarre case that jihadic suicide bombers are actually repressed teenagers who kill themselves, and many other people, so that they can get laid in heaven. If only he'd told little Bush this information before he started the multi-trillion dollar hunt for Osama. We could have just rounded up Tiger's exes and pressed them into national service.

But, VF599 also has a great article on Sean Penn's efforts in Haiti. Nancy Griffin delivers excellent copy on The Making of The Thriller video. And Charlie Rose does the Proust. So, the good outweighs the preposterous.

In the interests of fair play, I have decided to give Graydon another chance. But with fair warning. One more dalliance with a vampire actress, one more Treasury blow job, and baby, this love affair is over.

No Sex and the City

A little while ago I went to a dinner where I was one of three single people in a group of 20. Everyone else at the table was in a committed relationship. Mostly couples. One - a threesome.

The longest relationship - 23 years. The shortest - nine. Most legally married. The trio - together 15 years; so, as good as. It was a fun evening - lots of laughter and flirting. No hissing, no arguing, no separating the husband from the single girls.

What did these relationships have in common?

They were all between men.

Which got me thinking - when was the last time I sat down with that many straight people and saw such generally harmonious relationships? I couldn't remember. So what's the differential? I set about quizzing my companions. And the general consensus was ... Sex.

Sex doesn't play the same emotional role with gay men that it does with straight folks. Sex is part of a relationship - but it is not used as an emotional currency. It is not glue or a binding agent. Having sex with someone outside of your relationship is understood to be about physicality - not about love. And rules are laid out (pardon the pun) ahead of the game and adhered to. If the sex becomes love - one of the liasons ends. Love and companionship make up relationship cement - not sexual fealty.

Could straight women learn something from this?

I have plenty of friends who don't have sex with their husbands anymore. Or do it grudgingly every fifth Friday to keep the peace. Sometimes the situation comes about after the kids are born - and they both just start out being tired and fractured and never stop. Sometimes the woman just loses interest. Sometimes she uses sex to get the man - only to pull on big grey granny-panties once the honeymoon is over.

What then is the man to do? If he honours his vows - no nookie for him for the rest of his life or hers. If he doesn't and gets caught - divorce and (often) the end of a family. These are huge stakes.

So what are the alternatives?

Not many women I know would turn the other cheek. A French friend does. She thinks sex is much ado about nothing - she has her kids, her home, her lifestyle. So, she has instituted an extra-marital sex policy. For him. With the 'no love affair' clause. He is a responsible player, sticking to team rules. But there is no reciprocity in this policy. He will not accept her having sex with anyone else. She's happy to accept this. She says it works perfectly for them both.

I was reminded of all this today when a friend called wanting her sex life back. It's not that her husband is such an unspeakable ass that she simply can't bring herself to have sex with him. Nor is he cheating on her. He's decent, kind, generous and still in shape. He has simply lost interest in sex. With her, or anyone else.

She says she still loves him, and her kids. And she's tried all the sex column suggestions: lingerie, threesome, odd locations, porn, counselling, anti-depressants and cling film. All to no avail. He just isn't bothered. She asked me: if she wanted to stay in the marriage - what are her options? Are they limited to playing solo or playing away?

We hashed out all the possibilities and permutations. Whichever way you looked at the sum: it added up to three. And, as a character in Gossip Girl put it: "inside every threesome is a twosome and a onesome". Somebody loses. I can vouch for the truth of that, personally. And I had seen a subtle division in my trio of dinner companions that night. One man's eyes were a little more wary, a little less secure. His body language a little less confident.

Ultimately, my friend will have to make her own bed. But her predicament got me wondering if we need to clearly define marriage performance contracts from the jump off. Most businesses subject their senior staff to yearly 360º performance evaluations these days. Should a marriage partners be required to undergo the same scrutiny? And then, again like a employment agreement, should a marriage contract be renewed every three years or so - to check that both sides are bringing their part? With severance terms being clearly defined at the outset?

Or does it simply come down to us revisiting our puritan ideas of what constitutes "being true unto the other"?

Random thoughts at 60 kilometers

It's true that age is a number. And it's also true that you're only as old as you feel. But I think there's another truth about age - it does show. Not just in lines on your face, but in what you expect of yourself and in what you have achieved.

I was thinking all this as I watched people running past me, a marathon and an half into the Comrades, with 29kms to go. They were exhausted, in pain, almost detached from their bodies - but they were determined to finish. I was in awe of them.

I always tease my friend Karen that she should come to SA and run the Two Oceans and The Comrades. I tell her that it's a good way to meet boys. I paint a picture of her running up mountains and me on a Vespa seconding her and passing her orange segments. Afterwards we go out for cocktails and share stories with other runners. It truly only came home to me standing there last week - just what an incredible achievement it is for a human to run that far.

And then I thought - you know Wildish - what exactly have you achieved?

So, as I am now officially halfway through my life (my dad falls about laughing hysterically when he hears me say this), I thought I would do a quick inventory.

Here's what I found:

- I am close with my family
- I have great friends on many continents
- I am able to love unconditionally
- I do work that matters to me
- I have few regrets - and have learned from the ones I do have
- I won't allow unkindness - even to myself
- I can forgive - myself and others
- I speak my mind
- I am fair
- I know I can be wrong
- I don't expect perfection from myself, but I will always give it a good try
- I love where I live and how I live
- I don't dress inappropriately
- I have a good sense of humour

- I can laugh at myself

- I can recognize happy

- I know a good kisser when I see one

I consider these to be achievements because each of these things has been earned. None bought with money. Each has been a process, none an epiphany. Each has required the help of friends, family, co-workers, lovers and random folks. None have been dictated to me, or forced on me.

I am also lucky. Perhaps that should be at the top of the list. I am lucky.

Another thing I do know is - I can no longer drink four glasses of champagne without my body protesting violently. But, so be it. If that's the only cramp I get at the end of my marathon. I've run a pretty good race.

It wasn't me ...

I would not like to be Sarah, Duchess of York right now. Of all the stupid-ass things to do: this takes the whole packet of biscuits. Plus it's undoubtedly not the first time. If the News of The World (the ULTIMATE oxymoron) went to all the trouble to arrange an elaborate sting - they have to have known that she's done it before.

Now, if she was a Shaggy, she would simply shrug and say "it wasn't me .."

But that defense doesn't fly here. We live in a digital age and there she is, on film. Talking in that clipped, hyper-clear vocal style, that some people use when addressing someone "foreign". And we know, our hearts sinking, that Sarah thinks she's dealing with a real mover and "Sheik-er".

Then there's her body language ... she sits at the table, the $40 000 deposit in front of her, rubbing her tired, drunken eyes and rocking a little. She knows, she knows, she knows ...

She sees the little "Sold" sign pegged into her soul. Only she's in this horrendous, unfathomable debt - the kind that makes you look away from your pride, your common sense, your gut. So, she makes a low rent, mundane, cheap-hotel-suite kind of plan.

And she gets caught. The 11th Commandment: "you lie down with dogs, you get fleas."

I really don't know how a person comes back from this shame: so public, so global. But I am hoping she does. It could be the making of her, the ultimate reinvention. Now there's no pretense, the layers of the aristocrat have been peeled back to reveal a lost, impoverished, undefined woman in her early 50s who made a really shit decision. I don't know who her friends are. But, if she gets some decent, skin-flaying, pragmatic and brutally honest advice. That she elects to heed: the world could be hers. She could come out swinging.

I would like to see that.

Before I go, a word to the News Of the World reporter - Mazher Mahmood. Do not be proud of yourself. Do NOT be proud of yourself. You entrapped a needy woman in order to further your career. If the definition of the word whore is someone who fucks other people for money, tua culpa my brother, tua maxima culpa.

Out with the Old, In with the Old.

It was my friend Rudi's birthday on Friday. We all clubbed together to buy him a dishwasher (seems to be the new trend - I'm hoping for a first class round-the-world-airline ticket, with vouchers to all the Park Hyatt hotels. Just thought I would put that out there). And we all went to see the St Petersburg Male Ballet Company dance Swan Lake. Or so I thought. What we actually saw was a ballerino long past his primo, and his oddly shaped troupe (one of whom seemed to have a whole turkey breast down the front of his tights), interpreting arbitrarily-chosen bits of music.

The tiny dancer was well into his 50s, but he was no Baryshnikov. In fact, he rather reminded me of Liza Minnelli. I saw Liza in concert at the Royal Albert Hall, years ago, with Sammy Davis jnr and Frank Sinatra. As she highkicked her way merrily, and somewhat drunkenly, across the stage, a good few people averted their eyes. (One of them being Barbara Sinatra - to whom Frank would later sing: "where there is laughter there is Barbara, always Barbara warm and gay...". So, she shouldn't have been smiling quite so broadly. And, frankly (ha!) Barbs didn't have much of a leg of her own to stand on - she was wearing a tiara, and she acknowledged her hubby's dedication by standing to wave at the audience with that peculiar inward wave the Queen Liz favours. Cue more eye aversion.)

At one point Friday's dancing queen tossed carnations into the audience. He'd been miming frantically to an Italian love song and was either approaching climax or had thrown his back out - hard to tell. It was all a bit too much for me. Like watching your mum have a few gins too many at a cocktail party and getting her groove on. Mortifying. I wanted desperately to go home.

There are signs up around Cape Town at the moment advertising "Deep Purple, supported by Uriah Heep and Wishbone Ash" at the Grand West Arena. I mean what the **** - who on earth would want to see them? Fleetwood Mac are on the road without Christine McVie, Spandau Ballet are touring Europe and Bon Jovi are out there in their new hair pieces - re-living on a prayer.

Are we all taking this 'fifty is the new forty" thing too far? Should we be starting to retire gracefully? Frankie could hardly remember the words to 'New York New York', that night in London. From my seat I could see the teleprompters: "da da da dada da, da da da, start spreading the news". Like Friday's ballet - all it did was make me sad.

Maurits sent me an article from The Times in which the journalist described how much happier we all are once we hit fifty. In fact - we are so happy, we are are apparently taking on "new hedonist ways". I'm not entirely sure what this means, but suspect it has something to do with getting our old bits out, and putting them up there on public view. And if that's what Friday's ballet was all about - count me out. It's said that the art of going to a party is knowing when to leave, and I am a 10pm Cinderella.

Happy, Happier, Happiest

I'm reading Tal Ben-Shahar's follow-up to "Happy" - "Happier" (snappy, eh). The sequel is essentially, a guided workbook (which Ben-Sahar, in an unusual misstep, describes as: "A Gratitude Journal for Daily Joy and Lasting Fulfillment". Urrrgh, Tal - way too much buddy.) The premise is that by completing various written exercises, you remind yourself of all the things you have in your life that are worthy of gratitude. And when you live with gratitude - it builds happiness.

In week one - we had to list five things each day for which we were grateful. Two weeks ago, today, mine were: lunch with my friend Maurits, a conversation with my Dad, the ADT man had come to fix the endlessly beeping house alarm and my eyes were clearing up because I had medicine for pink eye (the final one counting as two). So, I was grateful for: friendship, that my dad is alive and I can chat to him, a silent house, itch-free eyes, money.

I enjoyed mentally running through my day before I went to sleep. Looking for good things. Not dwelling on bad. And it was astonishing to see how many good things do happen. Things we take for granted. I have a friend who has an on-going case of the blues right now - he can't fathom why his life hasn't turned out the way he hoped it would. He has a hankering for a long-ago time - when things were perfect. And that's making him unhappy in the life he has right now.

Why do we expect our lives to be perfect? Where does this come from? Is it because we are focused on what we don't have, rather than what we do? Another friend of mine is having a birthday in a couple days and we've all been asked to contribute to a dishwasher for him. His lover describes the birthday boy's hands as being "tired of washing up". I can understand that - especially given the hours he works. Plus I would hate to give up my own dishwasher.

But then I thought - maybe there is another way of looking at this: there is food on my table, bought by me with money I earned at my job, that has been cooked on my stove, eaten with people I care about and which will nourish my body. All or any part of that should make me only too happy to put my hands into the (hot) water that comes from the tap in my kitchen, in my warm, safe home.

So I wondered: why do we feel entitled to easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy existences? Where happiness is delivered with the milk? And, do we expect others to provide our happiness? All neatly packaged and fail-proof.

Are we just too damned lazy to work at our own happiness?

Week two asks that we create new rituals that will bring us happiness. The idea being that instead of "focusing on cultivating self discipline as a means towards change, we need to introduce rituals. ... Building rituals requires defining very precise behaviours and performing then at very specific times - motivated by deeply held values".

The process of change needs to be quantifiable so this post is one of my new rituals. I will write twice a week. On a Wednesday and on a Sunday. Then I will go to bed and run through the things that made me grateful in the day. Because I know, regardless of how crap the day seemed, there will be something.

Please know - I am not unhappy. In fact, I am happier more constantly than I have ever been. It's just that I am always open to new ways of being happy. So watch this space.

Traffic Light Etiquette

South Africa has a poverty problem. And our poverty problem has many causes - current and historical. Politic and economic. With a myriad everyday complications: lack of education and skills training, migration to the cities by the rural poor, drought, families shattered by AIDS and, of course, graft and greed.

Sometimes I am afraid to look too directly into the face of all the need in this country. I'm afraid that what I will see will give me vertigo. Start a slide into hopelessness. Instead, I try to focus on the problem's knees, I try to look for ways to keep them from wobbling. Because I know, once the knees go, it's all over.

So, I support small businesses wherever I find them. People here are genius at finding ways to feed themselves. Parking lot stalls selling single cigarettes and oranges. A telephone shack in a township. Third-hand clothes, patched and buttoned sold from a blanket on the sidewalk. No opportunity is wasted. Including that mandatory stop red at a red traffic light: from newspapers and cell phone chargers, through beaded flowers, fruit and sunglasses to knock-off Liverpool strips and bottled water, you'll be offered it all

Then there are the beggars - with the blind at a premium; being led from car to car by a sighted person (usually a child). The transaction is slick: a quick flip of the coins from car to hand, a nanosecond weighing up of the offering. And an all-seeing smile of gratitude.

I consider these people to be the new entrepreneurs. They're small business owners. My favourites are the folks who sell Cape Town's homeless magazine, The Big Issue, and the joke sheets. They're legally at that light - they have joined an organization, lobbied for a pitch and show up regularly to keep it.

I watch them work six days a week, in all weathers, and always cheerfully. So I buy a few magazines a month and get my laughs every week - usually from the same vendors. And I occasionally add a flower to my dashboard collection. Or buy a pack of avos. When I don't want anything, or it all feels like its becoming overwhelming - a smile and a shake of the head usually gets the salesman moving on to the next car. They I know I can't support everyone - that I do what I can. And I am not alone, a lot of people do.

But not the two guys in the black Porsche Cayenne on Roeland Street yesterday afternoon at 1.00pm. They engaged the vendor in conversation, boasting that their car cost over a million rand, and then refused to buy his magazine saying they "had no money".

The pair of you should be ashamed. That man was shivering outside your big-ass car's window. He had no shoes on. And you two, gold Aviator wearing, fools just laughed and drove off.

Was that what the struggle was about for you? Being able to rub someone's nose in your new-found fatcatness? You are another reason that the poor remain poor. You're too damned mean to share the riches "the new South Africa" has brought you. I was mortified for you and I bet your parents and grandparents would be too.

Hearing loss ...

On Tuesday I went for my annual gynae exam and Dr Scott spent the best part of the appointment asking me if I was experiencing a litany of menopausal symptoms. Dear GOD! The List just went on. There are about 35 of them and they are all horrible shockers. I won't go into them all here; just know they're pretty much covered by the words: irregular, sweats, loss, gain, bloat, exhaustion, dryness, moodiness and just as a kicker - tinnitus.

What? Tinnitus? A roaring or ringing in the ears. Yes, I definitely had this one ... it was the sound of my youth disappearing off down the highway on the back of a Big Boy.

Moira's own ears perked up: "You know what tinnitus is? Are you experiencing it?"

Sure I know what it is, it's a curse of the music biz ... lots of rock stars have it - Pete Townsend, Sting, Eric Clapton, Thom Yorke, Bill Clinton. Standing too close to amplifiers for too long will damage your hearing. (Not sure what happened with Bill, though I suspect Pink Floyd's "Have a Cigar", on repeat, might have had a hand in it. But I digress.) And no, I don't have tinnitus. Nor any of the other verbs, nouns and adjectives that apparently now define my female self.

Afterwards I limped sadly off to Priya - the genius massage therapist. My hip had started playing up and I needed her to fix it. Could it be, I asked timidly, Symptom no 15? Was this the advent of Osteoporosis?

"Oh, no", she chortled merrily: "menopause is a Western Thing. It's just another way to pigeonhole women in your society. In India we don't even have a word for this. You're stiff because you overdid it at yoga. Nothing to do with age, everything to do with teacher."

I skipped home and reread the pamphlet Dr Scott had pressed into my hand as I left. Many of the symptoms seemed equal opportunity: irritability, trouble sleeping, feeling ill at ease, disturbing memory lapses, hair loss, changes in body odour, weight gain, anxiety. Why were these all lumped together as a 'female condition'? I know plenty of guys who experience some, if not all, of them.

Which made me wonder: is menopause just the last in a long line of indignities visited on the female population? Yes our bodies change as we get older. Men's do too. But, for some reason taking little blue pills to deal with decreasing testosterone is simply proof that there's a lot of "go" left in the old boy yet. HRT, on the other hand, signals the end of femininity.

Can we agree to put an end to this nonsense right now? To stop permanently assigning fifty-something women to the red tent and let us get on with being exactly what we are? Capable, experienced, resilient and sick of wearing labels.

Fearful symmetry and the question of gut

I took my nieces and nephew to the zoo in a couple weeks ago. Riley, 2-years old, sat quietly in her push chair: taking it all in. She didn't seem fazed by the creatures - most of them new to her. The lions had barely elicited a response, the elephant (big), bison (stinky), snake (sssss), crocodile (yukky). Then we got to the tigers. The male was lying along the wall of his enclosure. His mate under some trees. It was a hot, hot day - especially for a Siberian. And the two cats had only slivers of shade.

We sat a ledge with thick plate glass between us and the enclosure and the male was to our left. Just visible in the dappled light. Riley had crept onto my lap and was eyeing the animal out. Every now and then she would look at me and whisper "Tiger" and point. Then he stood up. Enormous: head the size of two bedpillows. He turned to face us and I felt a shock of fear run through Riley's tiny body. She leapt out of my arms and into her push chair: "we go, Suzie, we go".

Maya Angelou once said "when someone shows themselves to you for the first time - believe them". Those words have been running through my head since we walked away from the tiger. Riley's primal instincts are still well and truly intact. She knew what she was looking at. She knew what it was capable of. She knew she needed to get away.

I've been wondering how we lose that intuition, how we fail to recognize when something is bigger, better adapted for survival, more dangerous than we are. Or, perhaps rather than fail, do we actively choose to ignore our gut and, instead, compromise?

We feed the beast, placate it, entitle it, give it dominion. And then when it gets beyond handling, we try to limit it. To civilise it. Only to be shocked and overwhelmed by the scale of it's anger.

It's said "NO" is the most powerful word in any language. I wonder if we should have used it more. Or did we fold, weary of repetition. I need someone to tell me: was this unhealthy prospering possible because good men looked the other way?**

** apologies to Edmund Burke

smoke and mirrors

I went to Spier Contemporary 2010 on Saturday. It's a visual and performance art exhibition underwritten by Spier, usually held on their wine estate, but this year held in the Cape Town City Hall. The idea was to make the 132 artworks and 101 artists represented accessible to all. Whilst I was there it was mainly single woman and gay blokes. All white. So very Cape Town.

As I wandered through the warren of rooms I became more and more gloomy. Art doesn't usually do that to me - and this exhibition hadn't provoked a grey response last year. Nor the year before. But there was little joy in any of the exhibits. Perhaps a reflection of the year that has passed? Either in the art that was submitted or in the hearts of the curators - who knows. But, apart from a moment where I walked into a room and a jackhammer slammed into ear splitting motion scaring the shit out of me, the only thing that raised a glimmer of a smile was a collection of photos representing SA presidents past and present with their emblems. Thabo sported a black Aids ribbon, PW a 'sold' rosette, die Groot Krokodil - an ass-about facing lacoste croc. Joe Zuma's portrait was unadorned. Perhaps in hope, perhaps in anticipation: the artist hadn't commented.

I did love one piece - Matthew Hindley's "I Meant to Have but Modest Needs" ... a real oil painting on a grand scale. If I could have afforded anything at the exhibition - I would have bought this. As much for the title as the artist's abilities. I've been spending a lot of time recently considering what I really need. A job I had thought would bring regular work wasn't panning out that way and my cloth needed recutting to suit my needs. I just am not absolutely sure what those are. A new friend had told me that when she was really sick, and she couldn't get out of bed to walk to the bathroom - she didn't think about needing another pair of shoes in her closet, or a trip to Asia, or a bigger house. Things she had always thought she needed. All she could think of was how badly she needed to walk on the beach. Her parameters had become clarified. Focused by her illness.

There was cheering outside so I moved over to the window to see what was going on. A man was walking on a wire strung between two palm trees. He was barefoot, chubby, shirtless- cirque de afrique - and hamming it up mercilessly for the crowd. I took out my camera and a security guard was over at my side in an instant. When he saw what I was shooting, he smiled and said - "Watch, he will put fire into his trousers." Which the man did, to the delight of the kids who screamed and ran about in deliciously horrified circles. People darted through the smoke to drop coins into a tin pipe he had laid on the ground. He shook it in thanks and coloured feathers puffed out. The guard watched with me for a while and then said: "Where does a person go to learn to know magic? I would like to go there." I shook my head. Sorry mate, been a bit short on magic lately. The man, said the guard, was from Zimbabwe. It could that he learned magic there. I told him I was born in Zimbabwe and he smiled - "maybe you know magic too".

I walked back through the exhibition thinking about his words. It's not so much about magic as about knowing what you need. The man on the ground needed to make money. He used magic in service of his needs. He serviced the crowd's need for entertainment with his magic. Was it magic or was it need. It all depended on how you looked at things. All I need to see what I need, is the right pair of eyes.

Slipstreaming ...

I've been traveling these past 10 days - working with my new crew at The Poker Room. Without going into it too deeply: we use the techniques, tools, strategies, and people-reading skills required in poker as a business training tool. And then we play poker.

It's said you're never too old to learn something new - and I've been thinking that a lot this week. Apart from learning the game, I've realised that I miss being on the road. I miss airports, and hotels and room service and being exhausted.

I've also missed the huge cast of characters you get to meet when you travel.

Highlights for me these past 10 days have been the Durban 4 - Indian men of various backgrounds who shared two qualities - they are all implicitly decent and they are all dreamers. We had a wonderful lunch talking about ourselves and this country of ours. They reminded me of the men my Dad used to work with and of my Dad. Roy was an insurance salesman who hardworked his way up through the ranks. I remember the long absences from home, the stress about meeting targets and the exhausted entertaining. These chaps have all done the same. Providing for the family, keeping their faith and having a good laugh along the way.

Then there were the good old Joeys boys - the solid Boereboys who still speak Afrikaans as their first taal, but who share the many of the qualities of their Durban colleagues. They laugh hard, drink hard and go all in at the first sign of an ace. Roaring their disapproval at the cards as they flop a beat hand. Focusing intently as we teach them about communication and body language. Practising it diligently in groups. Lovely stuff.

And finally the Zimbabweans who work at the venue in Johannesburg. Bringing a level of excellence and sweetness to their service that is world-class. They arrived, early, stayed late and smiled the whole way through. Professional to their core. Despite being a long, long way from a home that offers no immediate chance of a future.

Folks - whether we are ready for the World Cup or not (and I think we will be): we already have a lot to be proud of. We have us. And we're pretty bloody fantastic.

**(actually all five of the men in my family are decent men: Roy, Mark, Chris and Justin. And Jasper is our little man.)

(If The Poker Room intrigues you - check us out at www.thepokerrooom.co.za)

The death (and dearth) of manners ...

I work with an NGO called Positive Heroes. Our Heroes are people from all over SA, who are HIV positive and open about their status. They work by example - within their own communities - showing how they are living happy and successful lives whilst managing their disease. A brave and laudable stance in a country that is, literally, dying of stigma.

We want to field an ultra-marathon team in 2010 - an ultra is any distance over 42km - the Comrades is 56km. Our four stunning runners are all on ARVs and, because the ARV regimen is time sensitive - they take their meds while they are running! Marathons are an incredible ask of any human body. Even one that is 100% healthy. Imagine running marathons when you live in an informal settlement, eat whatever you can afford and have a compromised immune system. It's like summiting mountains, without oxygen.

Which Evelina Tshabalala, already has. Seven, in fact.

Evie and her fellow team members - Willie Engelbrecht, Kenneth Methula and Masibulele Gcabo have decided they want to run SA's three big Ultras - Two Oceans, Comrades and Soweto. The message of hope in every footfall along that ultra-route is unimaginable. So Positive Heroes is trying to raise money/services to help them to run the race, deliver the message.

So far all of this is an UP. But here's the down. People don't get back to us. Just don't respond. To phone calls, e-mails, letters, smses ... I'm talking about people we know, or people who we have been introduced to. Silence.

Now, I know that in business, silence does not mean consent. It means - "we are blowing you off and we are too lily-livered to tell you". And, sorry folks, but that's not ok. Lives depend on us getting our message out. Even if your response is a no. That is ok. But tell us, show some manners,

The only exception has been Heather Scott, Gidon Novik's (Kulula) Executive Assistant. Who responded immediately to my "cold call" email. She directed me to the right department and even promised to follow up if I hadn't heard anything in a week. A classy lady. But the bank, the footwear company, the health-care provider - not a word. And they have known all of us, by first name, for the past 18 months.

We're looking for services over money. Flights, so that Masibulele doesn't have to take a 24 hour bus-ride before he runs 50kms. A couple of hotel rooms; so the Team doesn't have to bunk down miles from the race start. A hire car - so we can travel to and from the races together. And running shoes - good quality, pro-designed running shoes so that they can cover those ks in comfort. We also need a PR agency to help with the huge buzz that these four generate when they get out on the roads in their Positive Heroes T-shirts

If any of you out there can help - please let me know. You'll find Positive Heroes at www.positiveheroes.org.za. You'll find me on sue@positiveheroes.org.za. I promise I will respond.

There was an upside to the week, though. And that was all of the Parliament standing to sing their welcome to Madiba. Class and manners. As to commenting on the State of Mr Zuma's Union .... I'll leave that to Mr Zapiro .

The one eyed trouser snake that runs a country

One of my eyes is weeping and the other isn't. So I've been look at life through one pink eye lately. Bit like our President, Jacob Zuma.

The man just can't keep his trousers zippered. On one hand I really don't give a monkey's who he sleeps with. But in a country where 5.7 million people are living with Aids - would I be overstepping the mark by expecting him to wear a goddamned condom when he strays from his three marital and one affianced beds?

I don't even care that he had sex with his friend's daughter. She certainly looks like she knows her way around the block. And I'm not having a girlish bleat about honouring marriage vows either. I don't expect public figures to be saints. I spent too many years on the road for that. Yes, Tiger got his balls out, Bill smoked his cigar and Eliott flashed his credit card. But, far as I know, none of these fellas impregnated their 'bits on the side'. And I may be making a huge assumption here - but maybe, just maybe they were at least responsible in one thing. They wore condoms.

President Zuma - you are seriously undermining the fight against Aids in this country. If you aren't going to wear a condom - why should any other guy in SA wear one? There are 1.4 million Aids orphans in our country, Jacob. Their parents are dead. They died from unprotected sex and it's vicious bitch stigma. Pull yourself together and get a rubber on. Then I won't mind you waving your willie about in public.

big car, small ...

a woman in a giant double-cab truck/car thing menaced me down the highway today. I was sitting patiently behind an old lady , in the fast lane on De Waal drive, when she came right up behind me, filling up my rearview mirror completely with the huge-osity of her car. Despite the fact that she sat six feet higher than me, I could tell it was a woman as she was smoking and talking on the phone at the same time, and we all know that old saw about men and multitasking.

When a gap appeared in the lane alongside me, I moved across and the woman tanked up behind the old dear who sat steadfastly and resolutely in her lane. And I stayed parallel - so our Trucker was boxed in. She flashed, she hooted, she tried to change lanes. While I watched the performance I wondered: is that the purpose of having such a large car? To menace the other drivers.

I just can't figure it out. People here drive cars big enough to lead armies into war. A full size hummer was at the petrol station yesterday - taking up two lanes and two pumps and two attendants. And when he left, he didn't tip either of them.

It used to be said that the size of a man's car reflected his concerns about the size of his willy. Yet more and more women are driving these monsters. Is this some sort of feminist gesture I've missed out on. My willy's as big as you wish your willy was?

Beats me. But I had the extreme pleasure of watching Truck-woman work herself up into a frenzy today when Nana wouldn't move over. So, I guess they do serve some purpose.