A WICKED PERSON...

I am a wicked, wicked person.  I've spent the better part of today, grinning from ear to ear, and enjoying many hearty bellylaughs.

At the expense of our cats.

It started like this. White River and environs has a Rabies issue, and the State Vet visits the town annually, giving free Rabies vaccinations to pets that are taken to the local meeting point. I discovered this last year, and was thrilled, as the vets bills had mounted up; thanks largely to the maraunding ginger tom who regularly came into our house and duffed up Speckle.  Saving R400 on a set of vaccinations was like an early Christmas gift, and I carefully made a note of this annual freebie.

It was disappointing to discover when I called the department earlier this week, that they'd "done" the White River visit earlier this year, due to an outbreak of Rabies in town.

But bless her cotton socks, Rosina, the voice on the other end of the phone, immediately asked for our address, and said that she'd come over on Friday and vaccinate the cats.  Free.

A call early this morning, to confirm that we were still on, meant immediate action had to be taken to corral and confine the cats. 

Oh, for Roberts Kitty Confinement, a complicated design he'd made whilst in Primary School. He'd got it into his head that in order to 'love' and pet his kitten, she needed to be kept somewhere he could find her, and stop her hiding (probably in fear of her life - he was a very passionate 8 year old!)  Caringly, he'd devised all sorts of kitten entertainment for her, to ensure that she got regular exercise, enjoyed toys, food and a comfy bed.

Several house moves meant that Kitty Confinement got left behind somewhere; but with their weird 6th sense, the cats spent all of yesterday out of sight, as if they knew 'something wicked this way comes'.

Nothing for it but to ensure they were very hungry this morning, and were easily persuaded to bound into the bathroom for brekkie. 

Bang! Door closed, a post it stuck on the outside, promising hell and damnation if Robert let them out until the vet arrived, job done.

And then it started.  The angry howling, and crashing and banging of a furry body against the door.  Startling at first, as the yowling and bumping continued throughout the day, my funny bone was well tickled.

Perhaps I should explain about Speckle.  Not quite all there, nicknamed 'special needs cat' by the boys, she is affectionate in the extreme and will NOT be separated from her humans.  She is incredibly powerful and strong, moving bricks and furniture away from the cat flap, to ensure that she is not kept out of the house.

A weird scraping noise woke us all up early one morning, shortly after we'd moved in.  Shut outdoors, she'd gone round and round, until she found the weak spot - a small hole in the masonery where the toilet outlet pipe had been moved.  Determinedly, she enlarged the gap and forced her way in through the brick wall, and bounded onto our bed, purring loudly and proudly.  She'd found us!

So this cat is not to be messed with.  Supercat strength, without common sense and an IQ of about 10, means that serious damage can happen! 

But what sort of a person am I?  Did I for one minute consider that the cats were distressed?  Nope, I chuckled away at what I considered a childish cat tantrum.  And even Robert had to laugh at the sight of Egg, doing her best to squeeze her podgy body into a tiny gap behind the linen basket.  Clearly, she was terrified of the tantrum and hadn't found it as amusing as we did.

Thank you Speckle and Egg, you sure cheered up my day!

And before you set the SPCA on me, S & E were in a large bathroom, floor covered with cosy towels, plenty of food and water to hand, as well as a litterbox.  Considering that Speckle spends her days scooched up on the back of the couch, snoozing, occasionally moving 20m to her food bowl, a few hours in Alcatraz was NOT going to harm her!  Egg is no better, she adds an official looking perambulation of the perimeter fence, a short walk into the wetland reserve behind the house and a wistful stare at the bird table, before taking up her place on the back of the armchair, or tucking herself into my intray.

Rosina arrived as promised, the cats were duly vaccinated and after a short visit outdoors, have resumed their lethargic positions, splayed all over the lounge furniture, none the worse for a few hours confinement.

That's over with until next year, thank goodness.

POWER TO THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE

Pounding along on the treadmill at gym the other day, bored witless, my thoughts turned to Eskom rolling blackouts.  Specifically, to just how much equipment at the gym would be useless without electricity.

It seems rather bizarre that instead of taking advantage of our fabulous weather and environment, we choose to exercise indoors, but there you have it. 

So why waste all the energy produced by rows of sweating gym bunnies? Lets use it to charge a battery, which in turn powers the bike / treadmill / elliptical machine.

And how about using this technology at home?  As a parent, I’d much rather sentence my naughty child  to an hour of spinning, powering my laptop,  than banishment to his room.  That’s a far more productive use of his time.

Don’t stop with children either.  The family pet could be roped in to generate electricity, thus relieving the bulging municipal bills.

The hamster should be able to recharge the wireless mouse batteries.

How apt.   Finally a reason to keep a rodent!

Exercising the Jack Russell has never been easier, a specially constructed run, with a kinetic ball, will keep him busy for ages.  And run the pool pump.

A PHD student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology has calculated that a robust workout on an elliptical trainer or treadmill, connected to a device converting output into electricity, might deliver 10 calories a minute.  That’s 700 watts, equivalent to 7 light bulbs.  Enough to keep the lights on while you work out.

Believe it or not, energy harvesting shoes have been invented.  They work on a technique called Electrowetting.  Really cool idea which sorts out the iPod battery charging issues while you run!

Indeed, this is a novel concept.  Instead of counting calories and declaring them an input enemy, embrace them as a power source.

Ironically, pretty much back to where the calorie started!

Would we find it easier to enjoy calorie counting if we tracked their output rather than deprived ourselves of their input?

Imagine the new “diet” shakes, with increased calorie value, specifically for   those household energy needs.

 

Gyms would sell their services based on generating electricity and power, and getting clients as fit as possible to maximize their workout output.  How novel to see a gym advert with an impressively muscled woman, reminiscent of a Russian weight lifter, as the desirable physique du jour!

Finally, power and size trumps malnourished coat hangers.  

What’s not to love in that concept?

(Written for Live Lightly Times, published August 2012)

 

 

 

 

FOOD ADDITIVES THROUGH THE AGES

 

Our government, bless it, in its ongoing mission to improve public health through healthy food choices, proudly gazetted R146 - Governing the Labelling and Advertising of Foodstuffs, on the 1^st March 2010.

As is the wont of companies being forced to change the way they operate, the affected businesses struck back with fiendish wit.  Yes, the contents are labelled.  But clearly – I think not!  New world records in developing micro fonts have been set. Even taking the sauce bottle to the bright sunshine streaming through the supermarket’s door, and holding it at extended arm’s length,   specs perched upon my schnoz, a fierce squint fixed in avid concentration on the lengthy list of ingredients crammed into the 375ml bottle, leaves me no clearer as to what I’m actually buying.  Shopping now takes twice as long, because scrutinising the contents of my listed items, even the loaf of bread, makes the weekly chore a lengthy one.

I believe that scientists have a secret award for creating the longest, most syllable filled names for flavouring, colourant, preservative, thickening agents and chemicals.  They don’t make any sense at all to the layman, and give no inkling as to their actual use or reason for being included.  Even the simple ones, such as “Free Flow Agent” don’t yield a clue.

Modern living has become a migraine filled minefield of contradictory health and safety warnings, especially regarding food, beverages and medication.

However, who’d have suspected that food additives have been around longer than our great grandparents & that yesteryears “miracle” treatments and refreshments of choice, would end up as today’s banned recreational drugs?

Just over a hundred years ago, Bayer & Co happily manufactured a product called “Heroin”, especially suggested for children suffering a strong cough.

Metcalf and Mariani were just two of several brands of Coca Wine, recommended as “A Pleasant Tonic and Invigorator, for Neuralgia, Sleeplessness, Despondency, etc”.

Pope Leo XIII awarded the producer of Mariani wine a Vatican Gold Medal.  Which kind of puts our “Citrus Seal of Approval” into perspective.  (If you remember that Ad campaign, you, like me, are vintage!)

Cocaine Toothache Drops were very popular for children in 1885, and Cocaine Dragees for soothing the throat were the forerunners of today’s Vigroids, for actors, singers, teachers and preachers.  How many parents of newborns could get through the night without Stickney and Poor’s Paregoric (46% Alcohol and grains of Opium!)  Well, with no home entertainment systems, internet, iPods or fast cars, I guess you had to take your thrills where you could find them.

I wonder if in a hundred years time, our great grandchildren & scientists will shake their heads in baffled disbelief, that we gaily loaded our plates with food containing chemicals since known to be addictive or carcinogenic?  Will Sodium Benzoate or Monosodium Glutamate be the recreational drugs of choice in 2115?  Will Potassium Sorbate be the cause of Parkinson’s?  Only time will tell, but I suspect that the populace of 1885 were a lot jollier on their food additives than we are on ours!

(Written for Live Lightly Times, published May 2012)

 

 

                        CULLING THE MASSES

Mankind loves to argue and reject change. Nothing excites us more than being told what to do, and that what we currently are doing is wrong, bad for us, bad for society, bad for the planet.

Environmental research results are immediately challenged upon publication, and considerable resources then poured into DISPROVING the conclusions drawn, instead of looking for solutions.

Poor Al Gore, picking up the pieces of his life after that shambled election, pouring his heart into spreading the inconvenient truth not many wanted to hear.  Instead of receiving unanimous global acclaim, the storm troopers were called in, the science was questioned and challenged in court and when the science was proven, his personal life dissected.  All he wanted to do was to shout STOP, LOOK & LISTEN. All Joe Public heard was more doom and gloom and veiled threats to our lifestyles.  To the barricades!

However, as intelligent and educated folk, we comprehend perfectly the basic logistics of the vehicle being filled to capacity.  South Africans perform a loaves and fishes miracle daily, by fitting 32 people into 16 seater minibuses. But eventually, even the most optimistic driver has to agree, enough!  Leaving the remaining commuters behind to wait for the next taxi.

Oct 2011 saw the 7 Billionth person born.  The date is a theoretical one, as we really have no idea when or where this event actually happened.  The population reached its 1st Billion in 1830, 2nd billion in 1930, 3rd Billion in 1960 and ever since has been adding the billions on at an average rate of 1 Billion every 12 years or so.

So what happens when Planet Earth is filled, to capacity?  We aren’t talking standing room only here.  All life forms require far more space than merely their physical body, in order to survive.  It’s been suggested 69m2 each person, for living space alone.  That doesn’t include the space for animal and crop rearing to provide food and fuel, or mining for the resources that produce our possessions.

Unfortunately, we have yet to find a sister planet to move onto, so the next “taxi” isn’t coming along for a while.

Well, here’s the solution—culling.  Yes, let’s take a leaf out of ancient civilizations and animal management and dispatch and be done with people who just aren’t up to scratch.

Each law abiding tax payer should be entitled to nominate 5 people for culling.  Think your teenage children, the errant husband, noisy neighbour, complaining mother in law, the guy who cut you off in traffic, or stole your cell phone…..

We could take a leaf out of Roman Empire times.  Turn the underutilized soccer stadia into arenas a la the Coliseum.  Toss the Rhino and Elephant poachers in to face a pack of enraged Rhino’s and Ellies, along with some hungry lions.

In fact, kill two birds with one stone, and add the poor schmucks who believe that the Rhino horn powder they buy is going to cure their cancer.  In one fell swoop, you’ve stopped the market, ended their cancer suffering, and reduced the population, leaving more living space for the rest of us.

Talk about a one size fits all solution. Works for me, what do you think?

(Written for Live Lightly Times, published Feb 2012)

  

 

 

MIGRANT FLOCKS

 

Migration takes many forms.  Gnu’s and Zebra trot around the Serengeti , Swallows flee miserable European weather for an African sojourn, & my family made the groot trek from the hustle, bustle and hijack capital to the Slowveld.

To our delight, our garden, bordering a wetland reserve, is home to an exciting variety of wild birds.  Books and binoculars at hand, we gleefully identify new species.  From Jimmy the resident Kingfisher, to the twitchy flock of Bronze Mannikins, greedy Laughing Doves, noisy Mousebirds, colourful European Bee Eater and the argumentative Crested Barbet family, we are entertained with their antics & daily activities.

We aren’t impressed with the Hamerkop’s fishing skills.  His final approach over the wetland & his touch down next to our swimming pool repeatedly ends in disgust as he realises the tempting waters are fishless.  Perhaps the charcoal hued pool confuses him, but he  always returns home empty beaked.  He never learns.

The Eagle owl stands guard on the telephone pole & when the moon is full, his eery silhouette brings a Hogwarts feel to the garden. 

Alan holds me responsible for the disappearance of Jimmy, the Brown Hooded Kingfisher.  Named for my father in law, who spent hours photographing his every move, Jimmy flew into a window one morning.  Actually, he hit the glass with such force, his beak probably bounced off his brain.  Not that he was a very bright Kingfisher. Far from catching fish, Jim sat on our fence every morning, removing crickets from the lawn and gulping them down with a blissful smile. 

Nonetheless, when he cannoned off the window & fell motionless onto the ground, I rushed to his rescue.  He lay in the palm of my hand, far smaller than you’d expect, dazed eyes staring in confusion.  Thinking he’d be safest on the bird table, out of cat reach, amongst friends, I carefully laid him amidst seed, bread & orange segments.   By the next hospital round, he’d gone, never to be seen again.  Jimmy’s daily presence on our fence is missed.

Last Spring the Crested Barbets became parents.  Such a bustle of feeding kept Mum & Dad busy all day, for weeks.  And what a noisy pair of babies they had – a constant, cicada like buzz emitted from the nesting log, & once old enough, 2 little heads fought for viewing space as they watched the world outside their home.  Just as suddenly as they arrived, they left. 

The only fly in the ointment is the arrival of the Hadeda Ibis.  They are a plague in Joburg, their raucous screech disrupting conversation and rudely waking babies.  I can’t believe we used to rescue the Hadeda chicks fallen from the nest, hand feeding the barely fledged little things.  I’d rethink that strategy next time.  My favorite anecdote is that of a visiting American friend, startled awake one morning, exclaiming at the sight of a “Pterodactyl” outside her window. 

After three years of peaceful bushveld bliss, an entire squadron of eight Hadeda’s landed in the reserve this week, and proceeded to forage next to our fence.  Gloomily, I stare at them, knowing for sure that with Jimmy’s demise, the Hadeda’s have arrived in food paradise, and are here to stay.

(Written for Live Lightly Times, published October 2011)

So - my first rejection letter!  Is this reason enough for some fizzy? Disappointed, yes.  Of course I'd hoped for a fairytale first article, first submission, immediate acceptance.  But it always was a fairytale and look, I'm still standing! (well, sitting in my comfy chair, but you knew that, right?!)

Onwards and upwards, now lining up other publications to bombard with submissions.

I must be growing up, the sky didn't fall, and without missing a beat, I started on Plan B.  I KNOW that Grieving the Forever Babies has an audience.  I just need to find it, and I will.

Meanwhile, time to polish up How to keep your online editor happy, and daringly, send that off to the international webzines I identified yesterday, one by one.  75 US cents a word, 1000 - 1500 words required, has my name on it!  Besides which, they were really interesting sites that I'm going to visit often.

Research wise - I've got a "green" topic in mind, to get cracking on.  My devious masterplan is to get 3 or 4 articles completed and sent out and about.  Someone has to snap one up, eventually.

G the FB's was something that I had to write, it was therapeutic, emotional, difficult yet easy and after writing it, something inside me was set free.  And not only me, the brave women who related their stories have also unlocked secret cellars within.  Suddenly, we are openly talking about our Forever Babies, including them into the conversation, as required.  Normal.  And no more tears as we do so.

So many years later, we've finally realised that our FB's are an essential part of whom we are, and the path we are travelling on.  It is up to us to use the gifts they endowed us with, to exude them as part of our aura, and to be there, with our acquired wisdom,  for those in need that we come across.  THIS is why we suffered, THIS is why we are here.

How incredible to actually see the reason for being, to know that nothing happens in disorder.  All is as it should be, and we have our place as it is intended. 

I've understood this, but now I know it.  Comfort and joy, and blessings to all.

Hello and welcome!

There is no better sense of achievement to a middle aged woman, than conquering a piece of electronic equipment. 

It took some time, and much angst, gritted teeth and almost tears, but voila, I'm up and running with my very first blog!

Well, I've found a title, and a domain (huh?) and am burbling away.  I'm pretty sure that if blogs were measured on the same scale as IEB school reports, I'm a steady 2 - ie, elementary achievement.  A long way from the 6 or 7 I demand from my son.

Still, a beginning is always a fine thing, and a reason to break out the bubbly and celebrate.

Again.

2012 has been the year of non stop celebration - a series of 50th birthdays, happy travels with dear friends, my beloved sons' fledging and taking off, in more ways than one. Completing my Journalism Course. Finalising the sale of my business. Renting out my flat in the city, and looking forward to a year of travel and change to come.

Of course, all this joy and happiness has been tempered by the sudden death of my mother, and what feels like a flood of similar deaths and dire illnesses amongst my friends' mothers.  2012 has brought quite unbearable hardship and struggle to so many people that I know.

Life is about balance.  Joy is sweeter for pain endured, we celebrate and struggle in equal measure.  Perhaps that is why dry wine and sour jelly worms are my favourites - the eyewatering, cheek sucking shock, followed by the crisp freshness and relish - leaving behind a yearning for more.

It really is true that our lives run in cycles.  We got married, had children, watched them grow to late teens / early 20's, and now have entered the cycle of parental death.  I suppose weddings, grandchildren and retirement are next on the agenda.

Rhubarb - I'm not ready for that yet.  My mental age is about 30, and I intend to ignore the creaks, groans, aches and pains that my abused body presents daily.  Abused in terms of the fuel I feed it, and the care I give it.  I still think the most pointless invention I've seen this year, is the resealable chocolate wrapping. A RESEALABLE choccie wrapper - who on earth do they think leaves half a bar of chocolate uneaten, and carefully reseals it for another day?  Duh!  As for sport and exercise -I ignore the first, and flop grudgingly through the latter, a duty required by middle age; like black cohosh and red clover.

Anyhow, I'm going off point.  A blog, apparently, is THE thing that new, aspiring writers HAVE to have.  It's quite a frightening prospect, really, who is going to read the damn thing?  Who has the time to surf the internet, in the hopes of stumbling across someone's rambling scribble?  And more importantly, just what am I going to fill the pages with?

A fun look at life around us, hopefully. Mingle a passion for environmental issues, with a rather bizarre sense of humour, and an insane desire to pound away at my keyboard, picking words and crafting sentences that make my heart smile.

And if the blog resonates with you, makes you laugh and encourages you to attach a GR (Green Rand) price to your daily life and activities, becoming a more thoughtful citizen on this planet, well then, my heart will broadly beam!

Take care