Rambling thoughts

Jack and I have been wandering farther and wider than usual due to the fact that we both need to lose a couple of kilograms.  Him because he is pear-shaped - and that does not bode well for his future.  Me because I will be presenting myself in Italy in eight weeks time ... and I wish to look ... presentable.  Some of the things that I have noticed on my perambulations:

• people say a warm hello to strangers if they are walking a dog (especially if the dog is a handsome fellow)
• there are other poop nazis out there who commend me highly for performing my civic duty
• the grounds of the UCT law faculty have wonderful sculptures and architecture
• many rugby players at the university wear alice bands to hold back their hair.  On the field. Which leads me to wonder if this could be causing the problem with SA rugby.
• if the crowd walking home from Varsity lectures is anything to go by - we are on our way to happy, educated integration
• chicken bones make up a large percentage of the litter in the gutters
• followed closely by apple cores
• hair salons are the most popular small business in the Mowbray area
• it is possible to get a beer for R10 in some of the local taverns - two if you are a lady. 
• in taverns, the definition of a lady is loose (excuse the pun)
• best not to make eye-contact with street people ... as they will immediately present you with a story of such disaster and mayhem that you will feel obliged to give them the R10 you carry for emergencies 

Walking puts me into the flow of our little community - and brings home how wildly different one side of the tracks is to the other.  Walking also puts me into my head in an easy contemplative way.  With the changing scenery keeping thoughts moving.  Jack has just arrived in my office with his lead in his mouth:  time to go.  Walking is obviously working for him too. 

In quotes

“Before you speak, ask yourself, is it kind, is it necessary, is it true,

does it improve on the silence?”

Sai Baba

Shattered rainbow ...

Julius Malema - ex ANC
Youth League Leader

Julius Malema is out of the ANC.  They stuck to their guns and fired their pet blunderbuss.  

I have a sneaking regard for Malema;  he had to know he was shooting himself in the privates ... there was no way the old boys in the organisation would let him carry on bad-mouthing them. Yet he went out there day after day - saying the most dangerous and plain stupid shit possible - especially given SA's still-precarious racial climate. 

Perhaps he is as dumb as a rock (which I don't believe), or he was set-up, either way his political career is over... for now. I don't think we have seen the last of him.  He may have failed woodwork at school - but he has spent time in prison and in business learning survival skills plus there's this huge humiliation. He's a harder man now. If the SA Revenue Service doesn't bury him for non-disclosure, I predict he will be back with a dastardly and well-funded plan before long.  

Rev. Frank Chicane and his book of 'dangerous memories'

Meantime, I am reading Frank Chikane's retelling of the ousting of Thabo Mbeki as President in 2008. Fascinating ... and that's just the info he is permitted to tell. Chikane makes sure to let us know that he is legally bound and gagged until he is 90.  And is at pains to inform the reader that he has not included everything he knows - for fear of exposing other members of his party to the repercussions he suffered - which include threats to his life, blacklisting throughout business circles in SA and being blackballed both socially and politically.

Chikane is an ANC lifer - he has held rank within his party and high political office in all administrations from Mandela through Zuma; so he knows his way around the hill. He is not a man to scare easily: in late 1989, agents of the apartheid government attempted to assassinate him by lacing his underwear with poison (!).  Two of the suspects, former Police Minister Adriaan Vlok and his (then) police chief; Johan van der Merwe, received suspended 10-year sentences during the Truth and Reconciliation process. Vlok sought forgiveness from Chikane in 2006 by washing his feet.  A gesture made more poignant by the biblical reference - the Apartheid Government was founded on strong Christian beliefs.

Thabo Mbeki - ever the gentleman.

Frank is also an ordained Pentecostal minister - still active within his church, so the spiritual vagaries of humans are well known to him.  He is been incarcerated because of his political and religious views and spent time in exile.  As life goes - he has seen plenty.

Yet this event: the removal of a President - not by the people who voted him to power but by the party that he represented, ... struck such a deep chord with Frank Chikane that he risked his future to tell it.

In insisting that Mbeki went 'ngoku' (now!), the ANC destroyed a life, a career, a body of work. They left the rest of Africa hanging, and created a precedent that they may live to regret. But they didn't care: they knew Mbeki was a statesman, an ANC stalwart: and he that he would not contest the recall.  He accepted the decision and focused on keeping this volatile country stable.  He went with dignity, his honour intact.  And I think that it is this that really resonated with Chikane, I think he understood that this was the end of the decent ANC. And he wanted to mark it's passing.

But there's another, greater sadness here.  The very people who fought against apartheid, who endured torture and harassment, who gave their lives and sometimes their families to the fight for freedom - these people did this.  They ended up in government: where they succumbed to temptation.

Chikane also believes that Jacob Zuma's rise to power as President of SA following Mbeki's 'recall' was tantamount to a coup. He refers particularly to the 'leaked' intelligence spy tapes that led to Zuma's corruption charges being dropped, just days before the 2009 elections.  Allowing Zuma to stay on ballot.  He states unequivocally:  “If intelligence officers report outside government,  that's the best recipe for a coup (d'etat)".  And they did. And we let the rest happen. 

Governor Mitt Romney
GOP Presidential Nominee

As I watch the American Presidential race run it's unsurprising course, I wonder how Obama will handle defeat if it comes.  To me, it's impossible to even imagine that he would lose America to milquetoast Mitt Romney. But we've seen this movie before - so I am not holding my breath.

President Barak Obaba
Democratic Incumbent.

What I do want to say to President Obama is that it is time to man-up. I am not asking you to fight dirty - I would think less of you if you did. What I am asking is that you get organised, pull out every stop and get re-elected.  We need you. So stop apologising, stay away from the middle of the road and get tough.  It's time to go to work now. I ask you this selfishly.  Because just maybe, your example will inspire the good men and true left in my government to stop worrying about political survival and bank balances and to roll up their sleeves.  And to start asking themselves what they can do to fix the rainbow

Fundamentalist thinking

Not everything you think is true ....

A conversation with a friend on Saturday saw me re-evaluating some of the conclusions I have reached recently. Simply put - I saw things from another perspective: presented in plainspoken and unemotional language. It got me thinking about how I think and why. So I did what I tend to do in non-emotional matters - I did some research. And came across a book called "Don't Believe Everything You Think". If we care about truth, says author Thomas Kida, we have to care about being able to reliably differentiate between truth and falsehood. But, working out how to do that isn’t always easy. And that's because many of the normal thinking habits that serve us well in day to day scenarios - don't really work when it comes to more complicated issues. He says that most of us make six basic mistakes which lead us to incorrect conclusions. And their resultant fallout.

Mistake #1: We prefer stories to statistics. Even a bad story is preferred over great statistics. Because we are social creatures - anything that connects us to others will have a bigger impact than impersonal numbers and percentages. So we will make a decision based on a single story ... which is most often not at all representative of a larger trend. And ignore the stats that will tell us about that trend. Despite excellent evaluations in consumer magazines about a model of car we are thinking of buying - we will believe the friend who tells us he's "had nothing but trouble with the damn thing" and purchase something else.

Mistake #2: We seek to confirm, not to question, our ideas. We all want to be right - so instead of looking for neutral evidence, we will focus on what seems to confirm what we already believe. In other words ... we ignore anything that might counter our own beliefs. If you believe woman are terrible drivers ... you will see plenty of evidence to back that up. Despite proof that motor-insurance companies offer lower premiums to female clients.

Mistake #3: We rarely appreciate the role of chance and coincidence in shaping events. We don't factor in how randomness and odds influence our lives. We ignore the likely and expect the unlikely. If something has a million in one chance of happening - we still anticipate that it will happen to us. Walk into any casino for confirmation of this ...

Mistake #4: We sometimes misperceive the world around us. Despite evidence that we have "got it wrong" in the past - we still believe in our own ability to perceive situations accurately. And we then operate confidently; believing that "we got it right". Truth is: we are not that accurate ... we see things that aren’t really there and we fail to see things that are. Ask anyone who has persistently believed someone else's behaviour will change, if only they give it more time ....

Mistake #5: We tend to oversimplify our thinking. Reality is a whole lot more complicated than we realise. We're just not able to take every possibilty/option/statistic into account. If we don’t simplify, we'd never make a decision. Unfortunately - we often oversimplify and then miss things we need to take into account. Think political elections ...

Mistake #6: Our memories are often inaccurate. And we can't help it - it's the way we are built. The real mistake is in not realising this, not understanding the ways in which our memories can go wrong, and then not doing what do what we can to make up for this fact. Ask any policeman about 'eyewitness' reports.

Kida notes these are not the only mistakes people make; we can't just focus on them. His point is that if we can make a habit of noticing these six, and avoiding them - we will be way ahead of other people. And doing far better than we were before.

Let's take a moment ...

I've had a long couple of weeks. Ones that have left me needing a holiday - but that's not to be for now. Sometimes when I am trying to pull together a series of events for Positive Heroes, and I have to rely on the kindness of strangers to get things done ... I become fractured, feel a little isolated and (I'll be honest), wonder if it is all really worth it?

When the Positive Heroes Ultra-Marathon Team compete in marathons, we always do outreach work around the race sites. This time we threw an Easter Party for our friends at Yabonga (www.Yabonga.com) - a great organisation that works with HIV positive children and their families. They hold clinics, provide ARVs and convene support groups in some of the most needy parts of Cape Town. We arrived at Crossroads to find singing and dancing kiddies (all living with HIV), already playing games in the sun. Afterwards we were treated to a presentation by some of the youngsters and caregivers who proudly showed us the art they had created to commemorate Easter.

On Good Friday we joined Isiqualo (www.isiqalo.org/?m=1) for a surfing lesson. Their Waves for Change program is designed for first-time water users and employs beach and water based exercises to create an alternative learning environment for at-risk youth. Isiqualo's main aim is to address the social and health issues that contribute to these kids contracting HIV. Most of these young surfers live in challenging situations - often without adult involvement. And it was beautiful to see them mentoring the (older) runners. I watched amazed as they gently coaxed nervous adults into the water and onto boards. And later, heard them admit they had never met anyone living openly with HIV before, and say how their perceptions of the virus and stigma had been changed by the Heroes stories. Today - it feels like it's worth it.

But then it came Saturday. Everyone knew it was going to rain, yet the Marathon organisers did little to prepare for the deluge. There was nowhere at the finish to shelter. The meeting points were alphabetised poles stuck in the middle of the downpour. As the runners came in: they were given cans of coke and apples ... rather that survival blankets and tea. The arena was awash in mud, blued skin and chattering teeth. Runners were wandering around blindly - trying to find their support crew and dry clothes .... and this after 52kms of running up and down Cape Town's finest mountain passes in the freezing rain.

Every 15 mins or so, the race announcer would remind us how "this sort of weather leads to hypothermia" and to "stay dry and wrap up warm". How the fuck he expected us to do that I don't know. The only shelter on offer was two tiny open sided awnings (thank you Ola! ice-cream. Sorry about the lack of sales) and a beer tent ... into which thousands of runners who definitely didn't have "sinking a cold one' on their minds, crammed themselves. I was carrying five backpacks and blundering into everyone in the crush.

The announcer was grating on my nerves. I was icy, pissed off and resentful. So I decided to point out the irony of the situation to him. Perhaps it was my pithy turn of phrase, or perhaps it was the sight of me blue-lipped with water dripping off my nose that made my point , but either way he stopped. And the man next to me under the Ola! tent said: "Thank God for that, I was going to punch him in a minute". This misery does love a bit of company.

But then the TAC (Treatment Action Campaign) runners came surging into the arena to spoil my moment. They'd been running for over six hours but they were still together, still smiling and still singing. This was their first every Ultra-Marathon as a team - and they had made it before cut off. This was their moment.

I had only been wet for a few hours and there I was bitching. I felt worse now and and headed out to do another round of "search my runners". As I sloshed along I decided to replay the past two weeks and see if it really had been worth it ...

Jeff Rosenburg at Southern Sun Hotel Waterfront had given our team shelter in response to a desperate last minute request. Knead Bakeries threw the Surfers a picnic lunch that was beyond generous. Vuyiseka Dubula and the TAC team had hosted us for a fabulous dinner at Vuyi's place. My friend Rudi Mitchell spent his rare work day-off inside a sweltering Easter-Bunny suit handing out eggs and teddies to little folks. And Cody Pike and his crew went above and beyond to get good filming done - and did it all for free. I realised I had plenty of moments of my own.

So ... what else did I ultimately take from the weekend? Dance and sing when you're not feeling great, trust that someone younger than you can teach you something new, remember one woman's moan is another's moment and always, always take a big goddamned umbrella to a marathon.

Pooper Party

Why do people let their dogs poop in public places and not pick it up? Maybe I am over sensitive but in the past few days I've encountered:

- an overtanned fifty-something woman at Clovelly beach with her three large hounds pretending she didn't notice one of them fouling right next to a family who were sunbathing. The dad eventually had to get up and wrap the crap in a sandwich bag

- the camouflage clad, tattooed muscle-mary - who told me to "Fuck Off" when I offered him a doggie bag for the gigantic mound recently dropped by his rottweiler - in Newlands forest

- the hip-happening guy who ignored the yellow slime issuing from his terrified sheepdog, while screaming at him to "COME ON", resulting in the dog laying sloppy bricks all down the path in Rondebosch Park

- the needy-chick at the Liesbeck park (a spot shared by kids and their nannies; drawn to the playground) who is so busy collaring other dog walkers to tell them her domestic problems that she 'just didn't notice' her spaniel soiling right next to her. And who then who huffed indignantly at the mom of a screaming dog-shit daubed 3-year old: "Us dog owners have rights too you know!".

There are signs all over these venues - pick up after your dog. And if you can't read - there are illustrations clarifying the words. Two of the parks even offer dispensers full of doggie bags - and there are dustbins in which to drop the waste.

The City of Cape Town is insisting that we register our pets - and this has made people mad. "Who does the City think it is," they moan: "Big Brother"? And dog owners here complain that we can't walk our dogs on beaches whenever we want. Well I am not surprised. Why should we be allowed carte blanche when a good percentage of us don't know how to behave ourselves?

The city is trying to make it easy for us to do our part. But we are just too bloody lazy to pick up after ourselves. And don't go blaming your dog, hipster - he learned everything he knows from you. You reveal yourself to us all when you leave your shit on our doorsteps.

The 'kommandant" in my nature is advocating a canine CSI ... matching poop to hound. Sentencing owners to community service ... poop scooping, tick picking and cleaning cages in shelters. Plus a website that 'outs' these lazy fools. Where we post a description of the owner and their dogs, perhaps their license plates and picture. And see if the naming and shaming will get the Capetownians to smarten up and fly right.

Otherwise we are going to be reduced to walking on highways.

The Not So Secret Life of the American Quilt

I've been working with a group of people visiting schools in the South East parts of Cape Town. These are schools in the wide ranging townships that run from the edges of Cape Town to the sea and mountains that ring the peninsula. The program is called the School HIV/Aids Quilt tour. And is a continuation of work started 13 years ago by Brett Anderson-Terry and Jeff Bosaki.

The idea for the NAMES Project Memorial Quilt came in1985 from AIDS activist Cleve Jones. As an adjunct to the Candlelight March commemorating of the 1978 assassinations of San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone. Jones asked people to write the names of loved ones - lost to AIDS-related illnesses on signs, and taped them to the San Francisco Federal Building. (Images that were later echoed in the New York 9/11 missing person signs.)

At that time many people who died of AIDS-related causes did not receive funerals, due to both the social stigma of AIDS felt by surviving family members and the outright refusal by many funeral homes and cemeteries to handle the deceased's remains

The pictures on Federal building reminded Jones of a patchwork quilt. And he was inspired to create something that would commemorate those lost to AIDS. Many of whom lacked a memorial service or grave site. So, each panel on the quilt is 3' by 6': approximately the size of the average grave. And these panels became the only opportunity survivors had to remember and celebrate their loved ones' lives.

The first showing of the The Quilt was 1987 on the National Mall in Washington. Today it weighs over 54-tons, is composed of more than 47,000 panels and is dedicated to more than 90,000 individuals. We take portions of this quilt, some made in South Africa, into classrooms and use it to start a dialogue with the kids. We tell them that the quilt could cover the entire country of Zimbabwe. And we tell them that people don't have to die from HIV any more.

Each classroom has a facilitator (like me) and a speaker. The speakers are all people living with HIV. After they tell their personal stories, we throw the floor open to a Q+A session.

The queries run the gamut of sex-ed, HIV/AIDS literacy and interpersonal issues. We discuss everything from condom usage, femidoms, pregnancy, anal sex, drinking, peer pressure, first dates, coersive-sex and drug abuse. Nothing is unaskable. Nothing left unanswered.

Some of the questions come to us when the rest of the class have left - and these are the heart-wrenchers:

My father is using drink and smoking tik - how can I help him?

How do I get my mom to start taking her ARVs again?

I'm pregnant and I haven't told anyone ... should I test for HIV?

I slept with a virgin and now she has missed her period, could she be pregnant? Could I have given her HIV?

We operate a "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" policy. A phrase many of the kids seem to know. Which basically means what they ask or tell us, stays in the classroom. We don't pass the info on to headmaster or teachers. If we feel the child is at risk, we ask them if we can refer them to someone who will support them. But the choice is always theirs.

These children come from a variety of backgrounds - but the lack of uniform, of shoes, socks, of classroom supplies all tell their own stories. Some of the learners in grade 11 (SA's second last year at high school) are in their 20s. Their education having started late or been interrupted for a number of reasons. Seeing them gave me pause ... having a learner that is essentially a man must up the ante with the girls a huge amount at these schools. Many of the teachers are just years older than these kids.

One rule of thumb seems to be that the School is only as good as it's headteacher. Very often they are operating in pre-fabricated structures. Temporary buildings that never made it to permanence. Our largest single class so far has been 60 kids. The rooms are hot and badly ventilated. Lack of blackboard dusters mean that lectures on STDs (sexually transmitted diseases) share chalk space with algebra sums. This is not school as I remember it.

Yet, despite all this - I am loving this work. The kids are engaging, opinionated and informed to different degrees. Some classes burst with questions - some classes sit and stare at the "umlungu" (white lady) who has shown up out of the blue and it talking about all this "stuff".

We have our own panel making session coming up next week - our panels will be a mix of loss and information. Many of the kids won't admit to knowing someone who has died from the virus. So we keep it general and encourage them to do what works for them.

The team has good days and bad days. And we berate ourselves if we think that we haven't done our jobs "right". But Terence, the psychologist who is one of our facilitators, always stops us gently in our tracks, reminding us ... "if any one thing that you said or did today resonates with these children, it makes change possible for them. Even if it was just that you made them laugh."

Which, given the "umlungu"'s pigeon Xhosa, the clicks and squeaks that I add as a soundtrack to condom usage demos. And the incredible senses of humour of our Speakers - who find laughs in living with HIV: I believe we do.

It's been a while

When I speak to my nieces and nephew at the end of every week, I always ask them - "So what have you been up to this week?"

"Nothing".

"What new stuff have you learned this week?"

"Nothing".

"What did you do today?

"Nothing".

Further questioning reveals plenty of activity. But yesterday it got me thinking: a lot of people (me included) do the same. When asked: "What's going on?" We invariably respond: "Nothing much". And our experiences are lost. To others - but, most importantly to ourselves.

The last five months seem to have been a blur of nothing much. So I decided to take a 5 month inventory: looking through my day planner, kindle, photos and notes for clues. I was surprised to find that my apparently slow-moving life was packed with activities, experiences and learnings. A balanced life is said to encompass 10 major areas here's how mine broke down:

Work - the cookbook and it's marketing, the Positive Heroes Fashion show/outreach visits to clinics and schools with the UltraMarathon Team, developing new plans

Home - lots of cooking, a redo of the garden, flirting with the idea of putting in a pool or moving

Family - always in contact, visits at Christmas and weekends together. And of course, the addition of the much beloved Jack (best new thing I did last year)

Friends - visits, getting back in touch, some new friends, drifting apart of some old ones and some losses.

Fitness and Health - yoga, the addition of pilates and (thanks to Jack) walks on the beach.

Creative - germinating book ideas ... some decent photos

Money - enough to get by plus some unexpected Royalties from the book

Spirituality - for me this means anything I learn that impacts my values, beliefs and way of looking at the world - and there has been plenty of learning here. Especially regarding friendship.

Travel - here and there around Cape Town.

The only area truly wanting was Romance. But right now, I am ok with that.

Yesterday I had lunch with some friends I hadn't seen for years. Both of them had changed their lives profoundly in very different ways. One had moved country, learned a new language and had a baby - the other had confronted an issue that had bothered her for many years and taken bold and brave steps to change it. With incredible results. I was knocked out by them both.

They wanted to know why I didn't blog anymore and I had no convincing answer. So, I've decided to get off my ass and get typing. It will be a good way of reminding myself that there is plenty going on in my life. And, if I am every going to get those books written; I need the practice

You know Jack ....

This week I adopted a cross Schnauser/Wire Head Terrier - abandoned by his previous owner because there wasn't room in her new relationship for him.

I met him about a month ago - the shelter had brought him with them to their 'open day' at a local nursery, and I was buying snail pellets and plant food. He was grieving; almost catatonically depressed, not making much of a good impression on potential adopters, lying listlessly in his cage like a beached seal.

I rushed straight into 'rescue mode'. But Mark wasn't impressed with my story, or the pic. He had his heart set on a Jack Russell.

So I left Jack amid the succulents, and started researching what the America Kennel Club call: "the bad dog". The research left me shell-shocked. Our friend Ryan's dog, Storm, was nothing like the small domineering tyrants depicted in story after story on the internet. It couldn't possibly be true.

Then a breeder warned me: be very sure, and sent me an article on Jack Russells that described a family life turned upside down. The writer owned a working farm, had kept dogs his while life and bred Dobermans. Yet, the terrier had taken over. He described insane escapades, and closed saying their challenge now was to get their dog through the next 10 years without it escaping, killing itself in the traffic, or challenging their dominant Doberman in an effort to become pack-leader.

I shelved that idea.

Somehow my search for terriers brought me back to Jack. The cautious breeder sent me a photo of him ... not knowing we had met. I saw it as a prompt from the Universe: Listen here, you were looking for a Jack and I have provided one. So what if it isn't the one you were anticipating. Get on with it.

I still had doubts: What if it didn't work, what if we didn't like him, what if I couldn't manage the dog - we could hardly take him back. My pragmatic friend Claudia put me straight: "Go for it", she said... "you know how to manage rockstars and children - please, it will be a doddle."

So I called the shelter: "I'm coming to fetch him".

Jack loves his new home, he follows me everywhere, likes going for walks and tests his boundaries constantly. In a gentle doe-eyed way. He chances his arm every night: trying to get onto the bed. I use a Supernanny technique, moving him back to his bed over and over: "You're not going to win this one Buddy. I've watched the TV show".

He goes to lie on his blanket: looking at me reproachfully. But I can see the glint behind all that hair. And I know, as far as he is concerned, this conversation is to be continued.

Then there's the eating: rather the non-eating. That is making me anxious. Jack is bloody finicky. My mom checks in regularly, chuckling: remember what you used to say to me when the kids wouldn't eat: "leave them be, they'll eat when they are hungry".

I refuse to get involved in a battle of wits with a small hairy creature (a few of whom bested their experienced grandmother!). Caesar Millan (my new guru) says tough love is needed: "No dog ever starved itself". I'll follow his rules, and I am sure it will work out fine. (And just to be doubly sure, I picked up some delicious "real meals for dogs" from Woolies.) Besides, Jack needs to lose 2kgs, off a 9kg body - so by the time he is hungry - there may be an unexpected up-side for him.

The other test is the poop: my brothers and friends find it hilarious that I am picking up Jack's scat ... they never thought they would see the day. Especially as I gag at the smell and Jack has the semi-runs at the moment, so is squirting it out in a circle.

Hey: I can hold my breath for 90 secs, I've learned to quash my gag reflex, and I'm a fan of double bagging. Claudia was right - my experience has prepared me well. It's going to be a doddle.

Miss (im)Mortality

I've been thinking about the end of days these past few weeks. In part, because my parents were in CT and much of our conversation concerned their imminent move to a retirement village. And, in part, because R.E.M. breaking up has really drawn a line under my 'youth'. My father laughed heartily when I informed him I was now officially middle aged: "Middle aged? You planning to live to 102?" Ha, ha indeed, Dad; your mother lived until she was 94, and Gramps until his early 90s. I'm not ruling out the possibility.

One rainy, jet-lagged London morning in the early 90s: I came face-to-face with my ghost of Christmas future. She was a tiny old lady, humpbacked. Muttering and shuffling along the freezing Stockwell pavements in her slippers. Dragging a leaky daschund behind her on a string. As I passed her, I caught a whiff of old cigarette smoke, human pee and general unwash.

I spent the journey to work imagining her life: 25 stories up a council block with a broken lift, alone in a cold water flat, surviving on pot noodles and cup-a-soup .... oh the horror, the horror.

Fast forward twenty years to last week's head wobble: maybe I 'retired' too early. That wasn't the plan when I left NY. I was always going to work. And I do. But, I earn nowhere what I 'should' be earning in order to bolster up my retirement funds. And, nor am I likely to. 55 is the first stop on the retirement train - and that's only 4 years from now.

I asked Jeremy, the family's financial 'safe-pair-of-hands', to run a pension scenario for me. Against what I have right now. What he showed me has put my mind at rest somewhat - but has also put actual figures on my twilight years. Sobering.

My mom loves Oprah Winfrey and is always telling me about things she saw on her show. I find O somewhat unsettling - but perhaps that has more to do with my wariness of people with money and power - than the actual show content.

Glennie was ambivalent about Tal Ben Shahar, Positive Psychologist and Happiness Guru. She was impressed by his approach to gratitude (very Catholic). But nonplussed by his urging that she live "in the moment". Not a concept that we Wildish women embrace with any confidence. We're fatalistic pragmatists.

I asked her one of Shahar's famous questions: "what would make your life 5% happier?" Mom responded immediately: "If your dad and I could go and see Chris in London." Can you afford to? "Yes we can, but we can't because what if we need the money in 10 years time and we wasted it on the trip?

"What if we wasted it on the trip?". That shook me out of my wobble. My mom is in her early 70s and she is worrying about the same things I am fretting over in my 50s. Things neither of us can control - even if we do nothing and go nowhere.

Jeremy's pension forecast covers me until my actuarially predicted death at age 85. What happens after that - I have no idea. But I'm not going to worry about it now.

My new BFF

The many wonders of my day are now enriched by a twelve hourly encounter with a bottle. No bubbles in this one. Only salt and water. Oh how times have changed.

Post-operative musings ....

So I had the op on Friday - great surgeon. Excellent and affordable clinic. Paid for by my not-so bad and affordable health care. Recovery day three finds me feeling and looking like I went on a date with Mel Gibson. My great friend 'Big D' exhorts me to "keep the faith" - his sinus op was his most favourite op ever, after his vasectomy. So I have big hopes.

Apart from unblocked sinuses and a straight septum, what the operation has given me is ample time to mull over what is going on in our fair land. Rampant & shameless corruption, the slow hanging of Julius Malema (ANC Youth League leader and resident big-mouth-Trust-Fund-baby), tragic Springboks playing embarassing rugby, rowdy, smelly municipal strikes and an excruciatingly inept search for the new Chief Justice. So, business as usual.

And then there is the Bish - and his "guilt tax"

Bishop Tutu (who is my celebrity crush and Number 1 fantasy dinner party guest) has suggested that as wealthy white people in SA benefitted most from Apartheid - they should pay that benefit forward. He sees this happening in the form of regular conscience donations - paid into a fund, that will be used to eradicate the awful, awful poverty in this country.

Interesting thought.

We whites did all benefit from Apartheid - most specifically through the excellent education and the sense of self-worth and entitlement we grew up with. An education that allowed many of us to go out into the world and prosper. A sense of self that taught us to be wholly sufficient, determined, capable. That gave us an incredible work ethic.

Not the same education that was offered our compadres.

Nope, that system, the so-called 'Bantu Education System' was aimed at keeping our countrymen uneducated and in their place. Which the Apartheid Government believed was as a manual labour force. Thankfully - brains, tenacity and ability triumphed and we have been blessed with great leaders, great thinkers, great activists, great artists and great business minds from that 'system'. People who prevailed over Apartheid and helped bring SA to this place of freedom.

But who do you pick to pay Bish? To give you this money? There are very rich white folks, no doubt at all. There are also very rich Black, Chinese, Indian and Coloured folks. Who became rich before '94, who continue to grow richer. And then there are the folks who have taken their new positions in our government and grown rich through pandering and corruption. If all of us who benefitted from apartheid are paying forward our bonuses and blessings - surely it would be wholly inappropriate to leave them out?

And what's the start figure. A billion Rand, two billion? A million? Do we start at the top of this food chain, or with the middle-class. What would be offered in return? This is Africa - there's always a trade.

You've suggested a group of 'elders': comprised of financial, moral, commercial and social leaders should administer the fund. Now, I like that idea. People with proven track records - who have been around the block and earned their stripes. Not the ANC's hiring current criteria: marriage, kinship and "what have you done for me lately"? Can I request that some of them come from other countries - and that they should be richer than any of our home grown billionaires? It will help keep everyone honest.

I want it to work, but I can't help but wondering: could this create a parallel government of sorts. A government apart? And could that encourage our already out-to-lunching ANC to see this as an opportunity to do even less about ending poverty, and even more about leaving it to someone else to solve?

Over to you now Bish. By the way - please know that I am entirely aware of the irony in my musings. And that they are happening from a hospital bed in a private room paid for by health insurance that I can afford because I was educated, able to travel, pretty damn tenacious myself and white.

A day on ...

The operation is off - seems like there are various complicated attachments to the 'premium level cover' that I have through Momentum Health Care.

It's all about bulk, apparently, they've negotiated discounts against footfall - so you have to go to the hospital of their choosing, and use only Surgeon who operates there. Or you can pay the shortfall - over R10K in this case (..."and the rest", as the Hospital admin lady put it ...). Shortfall I thought would have been covered by the top-up Insurance I took to fill any gaps in the Momentum plan. Insurance on insurance - I should have read the small print. So I will have to start again. Meantime, I can only hear from the left now.

Drove into a riot today - tyres burning, people hurling stones, baton charges by no longer genial police. Guess the civil as become uncivil. Still no evidence of Plasma screens, though. However I fear it may just be a matter of time/opportunity. I may well end up apologising to the oiks.

Risotto was a success. Garden is blooming. I'm sitting outside as I write - bathed in the fragrance of Jasmine.

Reasons to be cheerful

My friend Claudia asked brusquely - "why is that ugly dog shaved like a lion still on your blog". Good question, as ever, Wah.

I've been lazy. And pre-occupied. But mostly lazy. And now I am back. And as for the cheer:

Reason 1: I got caught in the middle of a stick wielding mob today. Running through a nice part of town followed by policemen on horses (the mob, not me: though I tried to keep pace for a while). Three ways I could tell I wasn't in London: no-one was carrying a plasma screen TV, no-one was wearing a hoodie and scarf to hide their face and some of them were carrying vuvuzelas - which they tooted and sawed at the police. Who were mostly laughing. All of them were protesting their low municipal salaries - proof that they actually have jobs. Why this made me cheery: civil disobedience is good. Hooliganism isn't. Watch and learn thou oiks from blighty.

Reason 2: I'm going to have an op on Wednesday to sort out my sinuses and deviated septum 'once and for all' the specialist assures me. The most expensive "well it started as an earache ...." ever. Reason to be cheerful: I have medical aid, I can afford the co-pay. Lucky me.

Reason 3: I'm making risotto for dinner. With spring vegetables, great parmesan, lemon zest and nicely ripe avo. Reason this cheers me: it's my recipe, it's risotto, it's going to be delicious, I have all the ingredients I need. And I know how to make it really well.

And as a bonus - spring is here. The washing dried outside today. The garden smells of jasmine, the lemons are big and juicy. All feels well - not perfect - but good enough - in my world.

You'll find me with no reason to complain today.

This is the story of a man who used what he had to hand.

South Africans are endlessly inventive.Especially people who have to figure out how to survive. A Garage Owner in Mitchell's Plain, an area subject to the aquisitive habits of tik (crystal meth) addicts, was sick of thugs breaking into his store to steal tools, etc. So he put the word out that he had a lion which would attack anyone that tried to climb over his fence or break into his business.

He has had no break-ins since.

A whole new level of foolishness

Design fault?

Willow Smith - daughter of Will and Jada - 9 years old, front and centre at couture shows. Being hailed as a new style icon. Will, Jada - take your kid home and let her go play outside with her friends. Vogue, Vanity Fair, Bazaar .... she's 9 years old, people - chase some reality here.

A little on the small side?

Abercrombie and Fitch making padded swimsuits for 7 year old girls. Just in case their boobies didn't look big enough to attract male attention at the beach. Removed from children's department after complaints by mothers. Jada Pinkett Smith just couldn't understand the problem. Will Smith was heard complaining that every girl should be able to use what she has to get ahead.

Half the half a man you used to be?

Charlie Sheen: Drunk Druggie ex-actor: who cares, honestly - who cares?