Much loved Speckle the Wonder Cat ran out of lives this week. After an initial meltdown, I pulled up my big girl britches and decided that she deserved to be honoured with more than tears and gut-wrenching pain; after 10 years and a barrel full of stories and memories, the life skills she taught me rather than her abrupt and devastating end is how I choose to remember her. From the moment in White River SPCA when as a 6-week old kitten scheduled for the 'list', she climbed the wire gate until she could look me in the eye and utter a teeny 'mew', (it worked, obviously, we adopted her!) to the last time I saw her, this loyal, adoring family member wrapped her furry paws around my heart and that of HO too.
Crossing the identity boundary
Speckle led the pack in terms of trans-species boundary crossing. I'm not sure that she truly thought she was a dog, it's more that she blazed her own behaviour patterns that were, well, rather more canine than feline in nature. For instance, how common is it for a cat to:
- growl at strange people arriving at our door. Yeah, cats growl at each other and dogs. But people?
- see off invading dogs and cats that dared to step foot on our property. No matter the species or size, she'd take them on. Her slender frame and unique lack of any sort of coordination played against her, so she usually lost and retired injured, chunks of fur and skin left behind on the battlefield but not before the invader gave up. Tenacious, brave and fiercely loyal, she brooked no encroachment or threat to her 'humans' and home.
- have a bottomless pit of affection and continually demand it from people. Anyone in our home had no choice but to pet her and allow her to lie on their laps or sleep on their bed. She was utterly mad for people, couldn't be petted and stroked enough. Aloof? Standoff-ish? Not a chance. She was the cat version of one of those annoying dogs that won't leave you alone.
- completely lack the teeniest ability to climb or jump. Seriously. She was appalling. 9 out of 10 attempts to leap onto the couch ended with her falling back onto the floor. She never got the hang of landing with her front paws, it was always an awkward 'all 4 feet in the air, scootch forward a bit and land' which usually went wrong. The number of times she aimed at the dining table, landed on the cloth and continued sailing across the table to be dumped on the floor on the other side was legendary.
- enthusiasm - Speckle 'spoke' sign language - with her tail. It was always upright, waving back and forth. The tip curled and unfurled with gay abandon, she was always so HAPPY. Like a festival flag or a parade banner, that tail was brilliant. It never once slashed in anger, she was incapable of that but oh my word, in constant motion her tail was a thing of happiness and delight.
- forgiveness. One could be unkind and say due to a shortage of brain cells and limited memory, her infinite and unconditional forgiveness for any ills done her was less a matter of choice but of mental (in)capacity. I choose to believe that her unstinting loyalty and love, given with a full heart and without expectation, endowed her with the ability to forget the rough push off a lap or being shut outside for being a nuisance and to simply, with unbounded glee and happiness, leap upon us and resume delivering her love and affection at the next available opportunity. No grudges held or pouting sulks, just sheer delight at being with her human.
Speckle joyously loved living life every day; she never gave up and possessed a brave heart overstuffed with an abundance of love and absolution. And yes, she was oblivious to the 'box' of her species. She lived her life her way, stepping over unseen boundaries and being true to the spirit she knew she was. These are fine qualities for people, too; Speckle's way of life is something to aspire to. Simple minded it may be, but hell, she filled every cell of her body with happiness and affection.
Overcomplicated and analytical as we humans are and so often eager to take offence and burn bridges, wouldn't it be a happier world if we took life with a healthy sprinkle of Speckle philosophy?
She featured in a few blogs over the years:
The things we do for our friends! Picture the scene - an active business-owner with limited free hours keen to broaden her network and meet new people. Of the opposite sex, because making friends and having adventures with her own gender falls easily to her.
Courageously, she (let's call her A. Nony) decides to take the high-tech road and offer herself up to the internet matchmaking services. A. Nony is bright, interesting, creative, fit, fun and seriously attractive but like many, found it difficult to describe herself in the tedious 'About me' sections so she called upon a friend to help. Me.
A. Nony has style - not for her a phone call plea, I was invited out for coffee and bribed asked to assist in return for a bottle of bubbly. Deal! Bargain on my side because she's an easy sell. NO, not like that! Her extensive list of fine qualities flowed effortlessly from the keyboard and I 'fess that it was the easiest bottle of fizz I've ever earned.
Bravely, A. Nony placed herself front and centre in what I like to call the Fresh Produce Market of Love and settled down to wait for the responses to dash in.
She waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And gave up.
The months passed and the FPML fell out of mind until during some girly support chat with another well-read and learned friend A. Nony decided to try again.
I TOLD you she has nuts!
A. Nony dropped me a note to update me about her plans. With the assistance of the friend and no small quantity of wine, various male profiles were perused, discussed and, truth be told, discarded.
I was irked, it's true. A. Nony enriches all with her bright, sunny and engaging company and should be snapped up by anybody genuinely interested in meeting an independent woman of substance. She's a quality gem and I felt driven to get involved and make things happen. It's what we women do for each other!
'Research' is an intellectual word to describe 'googling' and internet snooping but research the market I did. The UK's Top 10 Internet Dating Sites. Better still - Best Dating Sites in the World. Yup, I was thinking big.
In the interests of gleaning as much valuable info as possible and taking one for the team before reporting back, I joined a highly recommended, international site and completed the odious profile required. It stopped short of my blood group and I think the site ended up knowing more about me than my family or therapist. Forget the Fresh Produce Market of Love - I was gutted and splayed out like a salmon fillet in a Fish Market of Desperation.
PING! Within an hour, the notifications began rolling in. Martin in Tottenham. Peter from Oxford. Kyle of Texas. Quentin in Queensland. Bingo - the trick is to think REALLY big, on a global scale.
Excitedly, I let A. Nony in on my findings. "You're fishing in too small a pond. Set the filters to International and see what comes in. Worst case, you get an overseas holiday out of it to meet face to face."
"Well," she rejoined. "I've touched base with someone living a few hours away. He gets an opportunity to engage my brain and who knows? If he lives up to his chat he could be a winner, he sounds intelligent and witty."
"Yeah, but Peter from Oxford is a Biomedical SCIENTIST! Think bigger. Global scale. Out there are men who know that a woman's largest sensual organ is between her ears, not her flaps!"
"Write a blog. I dare you. Meanwhile, I'll keep things on a smaller scale, thank you." This lady is not for turning.
Ah, well, perhaps A. Nony has a point. Baby steps, darling. Baby steps.
Today, loving local. Tomorrow - the world!
Collaboration is a noun that I love. To me, it oozes positive energy and a willingness to work together with a strength lacking in the pallid synonyms 'partnership', 'team' or 'alliance'.
Say 'collaborator' and the noun sours like last week's milk. 'Collaborator' carries enough weighty baggage to sink Titanic II even faster than her predecessor. Images of roughly-shorn French women, swastikas tarred on their faces and chests, stripped to the waist and paraded in front of jeering crowds coil insidiously around the letters.
C O L L A B O R A T O R.
Nasty.
Cue the superb Jersey War Tunnels, the finest museum I've ever visited. Walk through the achingly cold corridors dripping with moisture; stare down unfinished tunnels that echo with heavy falls of water from the ground 34 metres above. Listen to the recorded sounds of slaves hacking into the shale rock, explosions and rock falls. You are no longer an audience, you are standing in the tunnels as they are hacked into the hill; your breathing speeds up and your heart pounds with...fear. The experience is so real that 77 years drop away and you are THERE. I'm not ashamed to confess that I was frightened at times and the awful sounds of war and hard labour banging around the chilly walls were beyond disturbing. Turning tail and getting out was tempting; it was way too easy to imagine what the slaves and forced labour endured in the construction.
Setting all that aside, the museum curators have identified the Jersey collaborators and recounted stories of their collaboration and their fate after the war. Beyond that, the curators have gone to extreme lengths to challenge visitors to put themselves in those shoes and make their own decisions on whether to defy or to collaborate with the German occupiers. Scenarios are posed and you are asked to 'vote' on whether you would have denounced someone in that situation.
It's a brilliant perspective to present, throwing the judgement grenade right back at the audience. No, I didn't vote on any of the scenarios although I read them through carefully and considered what I may have done but truth be told, it's an impossible question to answer. I know the outcome of the war. I've had years of exposure to books and films about the war, both fiction and non. The extent of the Third Reich's evil abominations are known to me and I've never personally endured such deprivation, suffering and horror. I simply cannot put myself in the shoes of someone facing those decisions and it would be sanctimonious and hypocritical for me to make those choices now.
To balance the equation (and another reason why this truly is a great museum) visitors are presented with four situations - all involving decent, handsome, presentable and polite young German soldiers. Would you let your child accept an ice-cream from one? Invite another to sit at your fireside and smoke his pipe while talking fishing? Respond to a polite greeting from a third on the street? Take in a soldier's laundry in exchange for extra food rations?
SLAP! There you have it. The average German soldier wasn't an evil beast or a pompous fool. He was YOUR son, brother, husband, father. Far from home, lonely and missing his family, his children, his friends and his life. Fighting because it was his patriotic duty or he was conscripted (don't allow the 'I was following orders' cop-out to dilute the sincerity of hundreds of thousands of soldiers fulfilling their national obligation and obedience).
Imagine this, if you will. In 1940, England left the Channel Islands to fend for themselves and, with access to information on the isolated islands restricted to German propaganda with odd titbits from the Allies, islanders didn't know what was going on. THEIR war was lost, they were ruled by Germany and as the years ticked by, what were their options? The last real news they got from the outside was the British call for boats from the island to assist the retreat from Dunkirk. Then they were told England had abandoned the islands and were given 24 hours to pack up their homes and lives and hop on a boat heading to Southampton and what was to most of them, a strange land.
From 1st July 1940 life changed staggeringly for those that chose to stay and those that didn't manage to board one of the ships as the Occupation began. A new government, currency, time zone, laws - even the side of the road you drove on changed.
Hope, faith and confidence can only take you so far. It's human nature to adapt and carry on - evolution happens in daily life, not just in millennia. By the time January 1st 1944 rolled around, how many islanders in all honesty still believed the Allies would win the war? How many had truly accepted that this was how it was going to be forever and got on with living as normal a life as possible?
Polite, handsome soldiers willing to lend a hand with a bit of heavy work or share some badly needed rations and treats probably didn't seem much of an ogre any more. Would it harm to accept an ice-cream or go to a dance in the mess hall? At that point in time, did fraternisation wear the stench of 'collaboration'?
The overwhelming message shared in the tunnels was to NOT judge the choices of others. Those who suffered terrible deprivation at best and lost loved ones at worst naturally agonised at others enjoying the fruits of fraternisation and collaboration. Yet if the war had ended differently the diverse choices would have been viewed through a different lens.
Anger, frustration, pain and vengeance make bitter bedfellows. However, it is extremely difficult to understand someone's decision to denounce a neighbour, knowing it would lead to certain deportation and possible death for hiding an illegal radio.
But what if the collaborator, after so many years of war...
- was protecting/providing needed food or medication for someone,
- genuinely fell in love with a soldier,
- sincerely believed that the war was over, won by the enemy, and making the best of a new life,
- was threatened or had family threatened to force cooperation,
- was promised news/release of a captured family member,
- actually admired Germany / wasn't loyal to Great Britain BEFORE the war,
- felt abandoned by England and changed loyalties,
- was unaware of the horrors of German 'Lebensraum' and how it turned Europe into a slaughterhouse.
Every collaborator had their own reasons for their choice just as every resistance member had theirs. There are two vantage points in history - victor and vanquished - with groups of people behind each point. Post-war, we have the luxury of looking back and pointing fingers - we know how the story ends. We know about the Holocaust and the unspeakable insanity of Germany's leadership. Our knowledge gives us a wider assortment of options to make informed choices. But if the jackboot was on the other foot and the Axis powers had overpowered and conquered all, our view of collaborators would be different today.
The War Tunnel curators are to be applauded for bridging the community divide upon a small island, a divide which saw family, friends and neighbours skewered on opposing sides. In South Africa, Archbishop Desmond Tutu bravely headed up the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in an attempt to uncork boiling emotions and safely release the power of healing into South African society. Rwanda found a unique way to repair, reconnect and remedy the trauma and suffering of the 1994 genocide.
The tender shoots to find peace and create a future after unspeakable cruelty, horror and trauma are rooted in a non-judgemental and empathetic look at motive. What drove the decisions made by ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances?
It's a useful rule of thumb to adopt across much more than global warfare. From family conflict to ethnic violence, does understanding the opposing point of view feature strongly enough in resolution efforts? I fear that too often, we simply run out of steam and/or resources and limp to an exhausted halt. Reparations, bitterness and revenge (key factors in the eruption of WWII) then become the order of the day.
If we understood why people sleep with the enemy, would our social empathy grow beyond the need for enemies?
A Mary T. Lathrap poem published in 1895 birthed a reminder to practice empathy: Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.
Empathy I have in spades but it has to be said that patience was out of stock when the genetic mix of my creation was brewing. In short - I have none!
Which is why I've so quickly realised how far I've come with personal development since beginning this chapter as a professional Carer. Even I can appreciate how my tether has expanded and stretched over the horizon as I slowly breathe and relax through watching a dear old lady struggle with the thought process of deciding whether or not she'd like a cup of tea. Or where the gravy should be poured over her lunch. Or whether she is warm enough or needs a cardigan.
The Carer mindset has invaded my body on a cellular level to the point where I understand there is a process operating at a leisurely pace and frankly, why shouldn't it? Where has dashing about really got us?
Another lesson taken on board is appreciation for an able body. Suddenly, the lumps and bumps, cellulite, crinkles and wrinkles don't feature as star attractions when thinking about my corporeal being. It works. I can stretch, reach, bend, sit, kneel, crouch, walk, climb stairs and even break into a lumbering run of sorts if pressed. Without thinking and with minimal preparation as well. Sure, I heave myself up off the floor and often grab onto something to assist the lift but overall, my body works just fine. It's operating better today than it will be in the future and grateful for this I am, especially when watching my poor clients struggle with movements I don't even think about.
It's been good to spend time with people still possessed of sharpness of wit and their own teeth at 97 years of age. It gives me hope!
One thing I'm not enjoying, though, and can't get my head around is the misery of interrupted sleep. Nor have I developed the ability to nod off quickly. Night after night, I lie awake between calls anxiously telling my buzzing brain to switch off NOW. That is something I envy my clients - their ability to doze off at any time, then wake up and continue reading the paper, eating or carry on with whatever they were doing when the urge to snooze overcame them.
Still, all things being equal, experiencing the reality of life for people in their 8th or 9th decade is a sharp reminder that this, too, lies in our path and I honestly and truly hope that folks will show great forbearance and understanding when I dither and dother over the choice of cream or ice-cream with my fruit salad. Especially when the answer is ALWAYS fresh Jersey double thick cream!
We can skim along life's surface like a water boatman, without impression or impact; or plunge into it like a hippo, creating a swirl of suction and disruption that says 'I'm here, watch out!' I like to wallow and submerge, snuggling deeply into life and making it my own. It's there for seizing and shaking, carpe diem and all that, and why not?
Making the best of what's delivered to my feet is all very well but the startling ease with which I slipped into a life unimaginable just 4 months ago is unsettling, to say the least.
I find chameleons fascinating and charming and will spend time watching them change to blend into their surroundings. But for people, adapt or die is rather dramatic; few of us ever have to face that choice and while 'it is what it is, just accept it' gets me through and over many challenges, there is something, well, shallow, about changing one's own skin so to speak and slipping into another lifestyle without pause or hiccup.
Born in England and raised in South Africa, I've long considered Africa to be my heartbeat and England my cosy, snuggly slippers. Comfortable and as easy as it is to live in the UK compared to the helter-skelter of Africa, there is something about the drama, colour, noise and vibrant human warmth of the continent that has ruggedly grasped my heart and soul and won't let go.
Or so I thought. Until I arrived in England one chilly December afternoon.
Less than an hour after landing, I was repeatedly asked for help by travellers trying to navigate Thameslink rail system. During many years of travel to the Netherlands, UK, New York and even Paris, I became accustomed to being stopped and asked for directions - it rather thrilled me because I felt that I looked 'local' and saw that as rather a compliment.
Now, I question my loyalties and skin-deep partisanship. How can I consider myself a true African while loving the astonishing choices and benefits and sheer comfort of living in a First World country, with easy access to everything you need and a whole bunch of things you didn't realise were possible, let alone needing them? How the hell did I lose my Saffer accent so fast and master the public transport system so quickly? Now I raise my eyebrows and sigh impatiently at people hesitating on the London underground, or fumbling with tickets when a quick tap with a bank card will do.
Who IS this person of such shallow roots and loyalties she swirls across the ocean like a rainbow iridescent splash of oil on water?
I like living here in England.
There, I've said it. So far, two months in, I've suffered only fleeting moments of homesickness. Worse, I'm scouring travel specials - do you know how cheap it is to go to Cuba from here? Prague, Turkey, Croatia are just a stretch across the channel and the pound, at least for another month, still buys a ton of things the ZAR can't even contemplate. Plans to fly south in early Spring are changing - there is so much to see and do here and Africa isn't going away.
Truth be told, I'm somewhat shamed by my shallowness and how easily I discarded who I thought I was for creature comforts.
The fog-enshrouded island of Jersey caused some personal travel mayhem this week but to be honest, this was the first time in several hundred flights that I've ever had a flight cancelled after boarding so I can't complain - it comes with the territory and I've been very lucky thus far.
It's interesting how much travel contributes to escapades and interesting anecdotes, especially when plans go awry and I'm grateful for the fairly regular font of stories to relate. Lightly Green wouldn't be much of a blog without these moments of discomfort!
Gifted with a month's work in Jersey it was with a song in my heart and a smile on my face that I carefully planned travel to and from the island to include some sightseeing days either side of my work assignment.
Every decent adventure commences with getting up before many people have gone to bed and this one was true to form; I got up just after 4am to be ready for the 5am shuttle to Gatwick. When one refers to the speed and convenience of air travel, very rarely does one take into account the extraordinary amount of time we build in to get to the airport and present ourselves through check-in and security etc which the airlines insist on and which add an additional 2 hours onto a 45-minute flight. Hey ho, part of the package, right?
Swiss watchmakers would have been proud of the smooth transfer from bed to departure gate, most of which was undertaken with my eyes closed - it was bloody early in the morning! Neatly deposited in my window seat, with an empty one alongside, life was perfectly on track.
Not.
At 7am, when we should have been pushing back from the gate, the captain made the first of many announcements in his melodious Irish voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for the late departure but fog in Jersey is preventing flights from landing. I'm going to wait for an hour and see if things improve as I'd like to give it a shot and get you there."
Fair enough, I have a whole 24 hours before signing on at work. What's an hour between friends?
At 8.30, our captain appeared in the cabin and updated us. The fog was getting worse, the weather prediction not good but a British Airways flight had just taken off and our clever (and delightful to both look at and listen to) captain was going to wait and see if the BA flight managed to land and if so, would take a crack at it himself. He had secured a takeoff slot for 9am should things go our way.
 |
| Gatwick at 7h10 |
When Captain Cute returned at 10 to say we were out of luck, the BA flight was still circling Jersey Airport and our flight officially cancelled it wasn't really surprising, I'd been following the action on Live Flight Tracker. My work colleague was on the BA flight and I was interested in seeing whether she got there first!
No, she didn't. Two hours later, both of us back in the Gatwick terminal and booked on the evening flights, we met up and calmly chuckled about it all over coffee before deciding this called for gin and tonics! The day sped past and at 5pm we headed off back to bag drop and our respective boarding gates, filling the WhatsApp waves with shared news about how far down the line we were getting - through the gate. On board. Seat belts. Could we? Are we? Will we?
The captain on my new flight came through into the cabin and filled us in. Fog was still hogging the runway in Jersey and while he was going to give it a go and had loaded extra fuel, it wasn't looking very good but we were going anyway.
Less than 45 minutes later the lights of Jersey airport glimmered below, along with strands of fog. 'Bang'! We were down, albeit a bit skew and skittering along from side to side down the runway. A hard landing which the captain had managed under difficult circumstances, bless him for getting us to our destination.
A desultory few hands tried to clap then petered out in embarrassment. Ah, I remember years ago when EVERY landing received a good round of applause from admiring and appreciative passengers. When did we become so blase about the miracle of heaving tonnes of people and baggage across land and water that we decided landing this juggernaut, with us aboard, wasn't worth the energy of a polite clap?
Shame on us for rewarding golfers, tennis players and the cricket team with a smattering of enthusiastic applause when they connect with a ball, yet two pilots, using their skills and immense coolness under appalling weather conditions, deliver us safely to our destination without any acknowledgement of appreciation from the people who had put their lives into the care of the pilots.
As for me, minus several critical hours of sleep and the treasured sightseeing day, it's all part and parcel of accepting the rough with the smooth and I got a fair bit of mileage out of "I've shown my passport twice and didn't get further than gate 55E!" uttered to Easyjet staff and fellow passengers in the lengthy queue. Making people chuckle at my weary riposte gave me a much-needed burst of energy too.
I'm a pretty organised sort of person. OK, truthfully, I'm EXTREMELY organised. Getting everything in order takes up much of my day and you can bet that when I finally slide 6 foot under, I'll have spent months arranging the smoothest, seamless disposal event possible.
The dark side of this is extreme intolerance of anything less than perfectly organised and run, most particularly when I've done the management thereof. Self-leniency is not in my lexicon.
The universe devilishly decided to challenge my equilibrium on Wednesday and turned a simple, 2 stop train journey to meet up with a friend into frenzied, ulcer-causing chaos.
My day went like this:
- Arrive at Leighton Buzzard station in good time for the 10h24 train to Berkhampsted. Purchase ticket.
- Study the route map and note that the correct train leaves from Platform 4.
- Exit the ticket office onto the platform and see a train pulling in several platforms away.
- Assume this is a train leaving a few minutes earlier which I had thought I may be too late for; thank my stars that I can catch it and leap up the stairs and across the bridge like a lumbering buffalo. Throw myself onto the train as the doors shut.
- Collapse on the seat, steaming gently under 3 layers, woolly hat, scarf and sheepskin gloves.
- Stare idly out of the window as we stop at Bletchley, I know I'm getting off at the second stop.
- Shake my head and slap my cheek in disbelief as we approach the second stop: "We are approaching Milton Keynes Central where this train terminates."
- Heart pounding, I grab my bag and flee from the iron monster, dashing up the steps to the ticket barrier.
- Pausing to find my ticket, neatly tucked into my mobile phone cover. My mobile phone. My mobile... NOOOO!
- Feverish handbag empty returned nil results - no phone.
- Stuttering with shock, I gulp my sorry story to the official at the barrier. My phone. And ticket. "That train is here for another 18 minutes," he said. "Go down and pick up your phone." One piece of good news, anyway.
- Flying back down the steps, I punched the door open button unsuccessfully. Four conductors approached, intent on sorting this wild woman out. Hearing the story, they unlocked the carriage and returned my phone while I babbled away about my awful day - I was meant to be in Berkhampsted, miles away in the opposite direction.
- Roaring back to the ticket barrier, I asked the official about getting back on track. "The train you just came in on is leaving in 9 minutes. Get back on it and it'll take you where you want to go." For heaven's sake!
- Back down on the platform, shakily lowering myself onto a platform bench, panting, I looked up as one of the helpful conductors came over. "Sit tight, love, we're shortening this train then will pull up to the platform. Hop on and you'll be in Berkhampstead in 20 minutes." I could have hugged him!
All that remained was to let my friend know I was running late, and why.
She understood, claiming to do this all the time. Her kind assurance worked so well that on the journey I gave myself a stern talking to and decided to forgive myself for a bit of silly carelessness with no harm done. Groundbreaking stuff for me, I tell you.
Happily united with my friend, we trotted off to our first stop - Berkhampsted Castle ruins, beautifully covered in snow. I pull out my camera, ready to change the settings to accommodate the pristine whiteness.
Why is the memory card indicator flashing? The memory card. NO! This is not happening to me! Without the memory card, snugly at home in my laptop where I'd left it after downloading photos, my Nikon is useless. Will this chapter of mishaps end?
Fortunately, phones have cameras and we were so happily nattering away that photography took a backseat anyway.
Kindly and understanding my friend may be, but she insisted on seeing me off on the correct train later, reminding me that it was only two stops and not to fall asleep and miss mine! Her faith in my train catching abilities isn't 100%.
PS: for the record, the platform closest to the ticket office and station building at Leighton Buzzard is platform 4. Platform 1 is the furthest platform away. Which wally arranged that numbering system?!
And thus far (touching all sorts of wood here) I have never, ever lost a phone or left anything on a train, plane or automobile. It was just one of those days.
My first daytime flight between Africa and Europe was a revelation. Why oh why have I trudged this route on the horrendous night flights for so long? Never again, say I.
To be able to see the giant, sinuous rivers snaking away far below, putting life into perspective was breathtaking. The massive emerald stripe off to the right blazing verdantly in the hazy cinnamon earth was the Nile, mother of life to so much on the continent. How thrilling to enjoy this birds-eye view of Africa!
Kilometre after kilometre, the Sahara desert unfolded under my seat. The sheer size of desert and river, seen from 33 000 feet, was a jolting reminder of how small we humans are. How brash and conceited our dreams and plans. There, laid out in easy simplicity by nature, is a construction
the size and complexity of which man couldn't hope to replicate. Millions upon millions of creatures, plants and minerals combine to create an environmental metropolis buzzing in synchronicity.
Over the Mediterranean we flew. Neat cross-stitched quilts of well-watered colour, roads, Monopoly houses, farms and factories. Snow-capped mountains standing guard. How orderly and different from Africa Europe is! That ice-blue ribbon of water must be the Rhine. Or the Rhone. Geography isn't my strong suit.
Finally the savage ache in my breast, gouged on takeoff as my body ripped away from it's African mooring, eased to a fizzle of nervous excitement. Even at this ripe middle age, I continue to lead life back to front. It's usual to do the au pair in Europe thing as a young adult, post-school or uni. Not at my age! But then, straitjacketed into a responsible, sensible, box which I didn't fight against when I should have, all the adventures and rebellious experiences I've had began in my mid 30's. Sad, little grey person I am. Was.
Better late than never, I say. One life, endpoint unknown, live it with relish and abandon using every sense we have. Except common sense, that's just plain boring!
One clear benefit of enjoying a dissolute middle age is the enjoyment of things which would have been overlooked by youth.
I can't imagine an 18-year-old gazing out of the window of seat 32J in awe of the mighty rivers and desert. Such wonder is taken for granted if noticed at all, whereas the miracle of every grain of sand and drop of water lands gently on my sun-freckled, mature skin.
How I appreciate the magnificent beauty beneath the wings of the plane even as I flex my own, ready for the next chapter in the rollicking unravelling of my life.
A few months ago I was given a real flashback to childhood - a paper straw. Oh, this one bore little resemblance to the pale yellow and white striped paper straws of my youth. This straw was the Kim Kardashian of straws - a piece of sparkly gold bling popped into a fruit crush.
And yet...
What annoying feature of paper straws had I forgotten, only to find that bling or not, millennium paper straws are no different?
The business end of a straw, the bit delivering delicious mango freeze to my tastebuds, became soggy and firmly sealed after a few minutes. I was forced to finish drinking directly out of the glass amid memories of this same battle fought decades ago. No wonder we seized upon plastic straws with relish!
The experience was related later over a lazy glass of wine with a friend in the packaging industry. An interesting source of info about recycled packaging and the environmental hazards of our overpackaged world, she agreed that the paper straw just wasn't cutting it.
Wham, her significant other arrived proudly bearing a white card tube - his company's latest development in the straw industry. Our debate heated up like an Olympic standard table tennis match with only one conclusion - why not accept the end of the straw completely?
Think about it - as fully functional humans from the age of about 4 years onwards do we really need a straw at all? How many millions of dollars in terms of cost and brainpower is being spent to find an environmentally acceptable, practical replacement for the dreadful pollutant plastic straw? Paper and card, I'm afraid, in my opinion just don't cut it. Yes, we could carry our collapsable keyring straws around with us but it won't take long, like the shopping bag, for that to fall away and for us to not have said straw with us when needed. I guess restaurants, already investing in cutlery and teaspoons, could invest in dishwasher safe metal tubes for customers to use but why can't we just drink directly out of the glass, can or bottle? Why exactly do we need a straw (besides the obvious needs of hospital patients and very young children at times)?
"Milkshakes!" Andrew proclaimed proudly, relieved to find a reason for his hard research into paper straws. "You can't drink milkshakes without a straw." Well, yes you can, Andrew, and it is possible to wipe the frothy moustache off your face too!
The corset, gravy boats, payphones, computer floppy discs, photographic film development, landline phones, dial-up internet are all examples of everyday items that have fallen into obsolescence, why not the straw? It's such an easy thing to do without and surely research and development budgets and time have better things to do?
