Recycling a dress fit for a Princess

An innovative fundraiser sets the scene for a stylish fairy-tale ending.

As every South African girl knows, the matric dress is second only to her wedding dress as a style milestone in her life, so hunting down and deciding on the dress is an undertaking approached with the same intense determination as the hunt for bin Laden.

Once upon a time, long, long ago (in 1997, actually) Deseree Knowles’ mother splurged out at Saint Laurent boutique in Pretoria to buy a fairy-tale dress for her daughter’s matric farewell.

Deseree and her mother are very close and the selection process was tremendous fun as Deseree tried on dress after dress.

 

The black and burnt orange halter neck dress with layers of chiffon and tulle glowed copper as it came off the rail.   Every pot reputedly has its own lid and seemingly every dress has its unique owner – this dress called out a siren song to Deseree; it was love at first sight.

The second she put it on, Deseree felt like a princess.  Eighteen years later, the dress still evokes powerful recollections of the wonderful day she and her mother had, and reminds her of how magical she felt wearing it to her matric farewell.

Deseree rocking the Princess dress

The years passed and Kiran Coetzee’s CANSA Deb fundraiser in White River, Mpumalanga, was the perfect way to say goodbye to a dress that was so much more than a swirl of fabric to Deseree.   Kiran, an entrepreneurial fifteen year old CANSA Debutante at Uplands College saw an opportunity to recycle the once sparkling evening wear women store in the museum section of their wardrobes and simultaneously raise funds towards his ambitious target.  With great charm, he implored and wheedled 26 dresses and 25 tuxedo’s out of their owner’s cupboards and persuaded an intrigued audience to raise their hands for a good cause (CANSA) while upping their green credentials through buying lightly used eveningwear. 

Deseree thought that by donating her special dress to the auction, she was passing on and sharing the magic, but bidding fever caught hold of her when her dress appeared on stage – the fairy-tale gown remained irresistible and her hand shot up!

All the best enchanted tales include a prince and princess, and this one is no exception.  Prince Manqoba Dlamini of Swaziland lives in White River, and through his environmental leadership training programme, Ecolink, he has become friends with Kiran’s mother Kirsten.  She knew his philanthropic soul was an easy touch to buy a ticket for the fund raising dress auction, although he had no intention of buying a dress.  Much to his own surprise, when Deseree’s dress appeared on stage swishing around the model’s feet, he found his hand in the air.

Prince Manqoba had set his sights on winning this dress as a gift for a princess in Mbabane, his niece Princess Hlengiwe.  But it wasn’t an easy task – watching him bid on her fairytale, Deseree’s heart lurched and she bid energetically, determined to get her dress back.  Alas, the enchanting story ended happily for the Prince while Deseree watched her dress swish away.

Like Cinderella’s slipper, it fitted perfectly and the Princess adored it on sight.  Deseree’s sadness dissolved when she heard of the happily-ever-after ending, acknowledging that it couldn’t have passed on to a more perfect owner. 

Princess Hlengiwe gives a Royal touch to the dress

As for Kiran, his auction raised an impressive R11 430 after expenses, and brought out the best in the community audience.  Several dresses and suits were bought and donated to a rural debutante programme run by local resident Brenda Archdeacon, enabling fairy-tale dances for these matriculants as well. 

Meanwhile, Princess Hlengiwe is seen at functions in Swaziland wearing the dress that began its life off the rack as a garment befitting a princess and many years later was recycled into a gown adorning a real Princess. 

Who would have believed that an innovative fundraiser in a small Lowveld town could act as a match maker for a dress from Pretoria and a Swazi Princess?

A romantic and truly African spin on the classic Cinderella tale.

Eating Indian in Nairobi

Breakfast was hijacked by the grain and sugar corporations ages ago.  Cereal's only advantage over the classic English breaking of the fast - grilled tomato, bacon, sausage, egg and toast (variants thereof the addition of kidneys, kippers, oatmeal porridge or fried bread) is instant readiness and no grease.   

Light and pretty tasteless as it is, cereal also ends with the 11 o'clock blood sugar crash and the resultant over consumption of tea and cappuccino as a desperate measure to stretch out until it can be decently considered "lunch time".

My, how our eating habits are ruled by the clock.  It's acceptable to drink bubbly at breakfast (on weekends and special occasions, spoiled horribly  with orange juice) but not gin.  Why? If I need that one glass of sauvignon blanc at 9h30 on a Monday to focus my brain on a new week, how does that change my abilities and redefine me a socially unacceptable wino?  Any of an enormous range of chemical and sugar laden cancer causing refreshments are fine, but a single glass of an honest to goodness, additive free fermented grape juice is deplorable and may not be mentioned.  

OK, that was a sidebar, on with the reason for this post.  Indian cuisine.  One of my favourite favourites (was I a Maharani in a previous life?) and one rarely enjoyed.  The eating facilities in our town unfortunately don't include Asian and Him Outdoors has a fearful intolerance of spicy food - it slides through his system rapidly, causing much discomfort.

But Nairobi, oh, how I love you!  Indian cuisine, rather than love, is all around us. Hotel buffet breakfasts have a whole section of Indian food - yellow dahl, chapattis, chicken masala, vegetables - now THIS is a breakfast!  Luckily our time here is limited, or my complexion would be ochre tinged!

His beloved's beaming, happy, spice-replete face drew Him Outdoors to suggest we walk down the hill one evening and dine at Anghiti.  Lovely ambiance. Superb, friendly service and a three course menu for 1500 KSH per person - roughly ZAR150.  Excellent!

Taking matters into my own hands "I'll order for us darling, leave it to me", the Maharani trilled.  The poor, trusting lamb did just that.  Samuel the waiter was implored to ensure the chilli / spice level was low.  Very very low.  And, with that proviso, the meal was ordered.  Sheekh Kebab Lamb and Murghlai Chicken to start, Lamb Roganjosh and Palak Panneer following.  See how considerate I was - three meat and only one vegetarian dish.

The fragrant, mouth watering dishes began to arrive.  Him Outdoors plunged into the lamb, then halted, gasping for breath.  "Holy @#$! you've poisoned me!" 

Yes, it was a bit hot.  Actually, move beyond furnace and think centre of the earth hot.  Tears sprang down cheeks as the fork approached our mouths - it was absolutely divine Indian food.  

Give him his due, Him Outdoors tried.  Pushing aside the lamb and chicken, he dived into the Spinach Paneer in a vain effort to soothe his tonsils.  The waiters laughed, I didn't dare, politely waiting until he excused himself to go to the bathroom then putting my head down to weep tears of mirth.  It wasn't funny, but oh, it was!  And the best was yet to come - the long uphill walk back to the Pride Inn.

No sooner had we left the restaurant than he plunged to the kerb and doubled over, belching and groaning.  "I'm in agony" he wailed "the pain, the pain!" 

Unfortunately, he had no choice but to walk 800m to the hotel and it was indeed both the long road to freedom and a walk of shame.  Every few metres he dashed to the kerb, bent down and stuck his fingers down his throat in a desperate bulimic attempt to retrieve and evict the offending food.  "My insides are going to burst - the wind is intense" he howled, step by step.

Pity the poor lady walking home who visibly slowed her steps as she approached him, eventually having no choice but to pass the groaning, retching mzungu as he hung motionless in misery.  "Jambo" he croaked.  Ignoring him, she crossed the road and hastened her steps, no more comfortable with the other mzungu striding ahead in severe hysterics.  These white people are crazy, of that she had no doubt.  

Back at the Pride Inn, the fourth floor had never seemed so far away as it did that night to Him Outdoors, belching like a two stroke .  

And no, we haven't been back to Anghiti.  Which is a shame and if you are ever in Nairobi, please do eat there, the food and service are excellent.

A Tom and Jerry-style Catastrophe

Except in this episode, Tom is in fact a spayed Queen (Speckle) and Jerry a timid cat called Anushka, with the heart and demeanor of a mouse.  

A true story of what happened when, after the tragic death of a beloved pet, a well-meaning owner resolved to comfort the grief stricken companion cat by adopting a new friend for her. Tom and Jerry meets High Noon crossed with Star Wars, Speckle morphed into Darth Vader and timorous Anushka revealed she was a nervous C3PO.  

Speckle's anxiously furrowed brow pulls her pricked ears forward as she stares out of the window, sunlight  glossing her tortoiseshell coat of many colours. She heaves a deep sigh. Where, oh where, is Egg?

She'd noticed her human was deeply distressed some time ago, round about the last time Egg had been seen.  That was, well, six weeks in human time which would make it about...extending her claws to double her body abacus, she calculated 6 x 7 and eventually reached a number. Forty two weeks. Why, that's almost a year in cat terms.

Egg - pudgy and grey  with an attitude overloaded with superciliousity, snub nose pointedly raised high - would never stay away from the food bowl or her comfy Yak hair throw for this long. 

Something wasn't right. Deciding to check the kitchen cupboards for the millionth time, Speckle jumps from the desk in her habitually awkward manner, four paws landing heavily on the floor.

Meanwhile, crouched on the arm of the easy chair in the Pro Life cattery, Anushka looks up warily as the room darkens.  The light behind the human filling the doorway outlining a solid, featureless shape.  What now, she thinks. 

Without warning, she's  trapped in a nightmare. Her world shrinks to a cardboard box, engine noise, strange smells and unfamiliar sounds.  From somewhere, a sing-song voice chatters non-stop until finally the motion and noise cease and for a minute, the world is silent and still. Lurching as the box tilts and bounces abruptly, things change again.

Light, space, food, water.  Then, from behind a door blasts Hoover-like snuffling, which becomes a sinister hiss.  Terrified, Anushka darts beneath the bed and crouches there, trembling.  As the hours pass, her eyes begin to swell and water, her body wracks with sneezes.  She's dying.  No, she's dead and this is cat purgatory.   How did this happen?

"What the devil?" Speckle growls, on the other side of the door. Foreign cat.  On my turf.  No. No no no no no.  

And so begins 3 months of yowling, howling, hissing, spitting, clawing, plaintive cries, tail biting and nose slicing, resulting in  a blood feud and enmity worthy of a Sicilian vendetta.  From two furry licorice allsort cats whose lives began in animal shelters, unwanted.

Just five years ago Speckle was swept up and dropped into a strange home, yet now, Queen of All She Surveys, she viciously defends her home. Could it be true - females who scale the ladder of success stiletto (or claw) the hands on the rungs below?  How disappointing! 

Slight progress has been made however - Anushka emerges from under the bed at meal times and at night, when she knows Speckle is shut out of the bedroom. 

Free of her self imprisonment, she chases insects, disembowels her soft toy ball, hunts down and annihilates the mats. She's even been heard to purr on occasion and has a fine turn of phrase, scolding the human in a high pitched whiney yowl if dinner and breakfast are late.

When the opportunity presents, Speckle slips into the room and lies on her side, paw plaintively stretched under the bed, the odd pathetic "miu" sliding from her lips as she begs the intruder to come closer and feel the fury of her unsheathed talons. 

Earsplitting shrieks, maddened chases through the house and intense loathing is subsiding - malevolence has dialed down a tad.

Speckle is beginning to understand that this chick is not leaving.  Which is not for want of trying by the humans - the cat carrier has come out several times and miraculously, the sight of it produces a happy, loving, purry little furry Anushka, winding herself around a human and showing off how at home she is.

It was difficult to explain to Him Outdoors that the tough Tom cat he'd suggested to replace Egg had been superceded a nerdy, allergy prone reticent little girl who'd even been treated by an animal spiritualist (she found a huge ball of grief in her chest) to little avail, but he soon fell for those enormous eyes too, and bailed on 'return' duty.

With an instinct to be envied by any fortune teller, particularly at those moments it was decided "Ok, this is it, today she goes back", which seemed to bring a different cat out to play - confident, delightful Anushka even before the carrier was hauled down from the shelf.

Irresistible.  Clearly, she's decided that this is her home and she's not to be returned to sender like some wrongly addressed parcel.

So life continues, the cats live past each other with occasional bitter interludes and the humans are yet again slaves to their pets.  

Sigh.

Can a woman be too capable and independent?

And why is that question still being posed in 2015?

Dawn on Saturday should have found me in Nairobi but unfortunately, international travel arrangements were kicked into touch by an "only in Africa" situation, and instead the weekend peeped over the horizon to find a small convoy of two cars, laden with camping gear, five young men aged between 12 and 18 and a pair of women gasping for breathing space offered by the Kruger National Park. 

Parks and open spaces, "green lungs", hoover up CO2 and spill life-giving oxygen into a frenetic city, which cruelly slurps that up and spits out even more toxic emissions (90 million tons a day, Al Gore tells us). Ouch.

But entering the Park immediately synchronises human lungs to the rhythm of the bush.  Our chests expand wide and deep, drawing in soft, pure air, fragranced by dust and Red Bushwillow (Combretum apiculatum) overlaid with eau d'animal. As if we'd walked into a wall, our blood pressure instantaneously drops, breathing slows and muscles relax. Heaven.

Once inside the reserve, my genius friend hands over her vehicle to her cool dude (licensed) guest from Argentina and of course, all the boys want to be together in that car, leaving us women to travel in Lola. Terrific, that works for us too - Kruger's big and striking north for our camp close to the Mozambique border, we have hours to while away, absorbed in bright conversation.

Enneagrams. Buddhism. Books. Further education and studies. EQ and its effects. Travel anecdotes and then, true cavewomen, we fall to analysing relationships.  Boss (hers) husband (mine) males of our experience (past and present, varied roles). Friend's relationships. Single parenting our sons. 

Result?  We concluded that men can be comfortable around smart, strong women providing they aren't too strong or smart, all of the time.  The battle of the sexes is truced and troubled waters oiled when control is occasionally relinquished and handed over to the peacock.  

Which is a bit of a problem if you are a strong, intelligent, opinionated, educated woman perfectly capable of running life, work, home and children exactly the way you want them to be managed.  You're so competently achieving this and fitting in some 'me' time that you don't have space in your úber organised schedule to step back and hand over the reins.  The agenda is jam packed - what if the baton is dropped and your strategic vision not met?  This isn't about sexism or female chauvinism – this issue is one of control and fear of letting go.  Lack of trust.  Perfectionism.

Both genders need to recognise that relationships are a jointly baked pie. One baker's strength is in the pastry, other baker’s in making the filling. Success lies in establishing and acknowledging whose skills lie where and respecting that boundary. And knowing that over a lifetime, different pies with diverse fillings will be baked and roles reassigned. Fluidity rules.

My learned and commandingly corporate friend and I are faintly optimistic that we've raised our boys to be confident men.  Powerful enough to jointly bake a pie and willingly swap pieces and places with the independent, accomplished women with whom they choose to share their lives.

That's our contribution to answering this darned question.

Grand Canyon of Emptiness

Being a wife without her husband and a mother without her children means that a home is just a building, boundaries of clay enveloping empty space. I don't find "alone" scary, and the past 2 years of alone-ness has passed by swiftly , barely punctuated by loneliness.  

Why, then, should this week bring a grand canyon of desolation to break like an enraged tidal wave over my head and sweeping my soul, helplessly caught up in a riptide, out to sea? 

I love my life, dammit, it's busy and interesting and filled with new experiences, travel, stimulating work, remarkable people and some heartwarming community projects.  I wake up happy every day, and am incredibly lucky to do so.

But.

For one month, 30 wonderful days, Junior came home from varsity and as the sun breaks through cloud, releasing rich colour and light in its path, I found a fulfillment I hadn't even known was lacking.  

Eagerly looking forward to early evening, when he returned  from work and we enjoyed a drink on the verandah, sharing tales of our day, I enthusiastically prepared meals, setting the table for two.  Suddenly, life has more meaning. How could that be - there was no lack of purpose to begin with?

Then Him Outdoors arrived home for Christmas and I'm just short of Senior Son to make life paradise.  There's laughter and noise, a pile of dirty dishes and laundry. Walks, eye-rolling and exasperated sighs.  Snoring and having to share "my" bathroom. Morning tea in bed.

If I have to sum it all up in a word, "sharing" will do.  In a good way.

A tsunami of friends and family arrive and the roar of a full house drowns out the sound of a  tide turning as the hours slip past.  The flow ebbs away until the crashing waves are silenced.  A home is transformed back into a brick structure and emptiness echoes the bleakness within me. Now the water is my brimming eyes, staring into empty rooms.  My hands, so busy for a while, hang reproachfully at my side, tingling with unused energy.  Crying out for something to do.  A beloved someone to care for.  My family.  At home.

I thought I had it all sussed out and sorted by now, but I've uncovered a secret place.  I'm a nurturer, needing to be needed by those I love most.  It puffs out my chest and makes my toes dance.  And conflicts with my fierce independence. Am I two people in one body and mind?  

And most importantly, can I be alone in this?  Is there anyone out there who is also contemplating, with bewilderment, a paradigm shift of who they thought they were?  Is medication in order or is this yet another step on the ladder of mid life crisis?

Frankly, my dear, I'd thought we were past this by now.

Creating, and Coping, with Christmas Chaos

We moved house at the beginning of May, and Him Outdoors, being the big African explorer (ok, it’s not quite as exciting as that – he works far, far away, in East Africa) has so far slept the grand total of six nights in our new abode.

Quite rightly, when our thoughts turned to the annual holiday – where are we going, and when, it was a natural decision to stay right here at home.  After all, thousands of international and regional holiday makers choose to visit the Lowveld for their R and R, so parking off in our own home, day tripping to all the places others spend hours and plenty moola to reach, is a no-brainer.  There is plenty to keep us busy here, and I confess (because Him Outdoors doesn’t read this) that I did have his job list, primed for his return, in mind.

And then it began.

I can’t remember who suggested that we invite a few people to pull in for the holidays.  We are equally expansive at opening up to one and all at Christmas if we happen to spend it at home, which isn’t very often.  But yes, I did follow through on the inviting.

And then it grew.

First up was a dear pal who I haven’t seen enough of this year.  “You are ours for Christmas” I chirp.  “When can you get here and how long can you stay?”

Number Two son’s sojourn was unexpectedly (and delightfully) extended by 3 weeks, with the offer of a vac job at a nearby farm (he’s an Entomology student, and the opportunity to scout for pests in a variety of fruit and nut orchards a heaven sent opportunity).

Only one fly in that ointment, he wanted to spend Christmas with his father in Jozi.  “No problem, invite your dad to join us here.”

A few weeks later, coffee with a Jozi friend.  “So sorry to hear that you’ve had a bad year, we’d love you both to come and spend a few days with us in December.” 

With the body count up to seven in our three bedroomed / 2 bath roomed house, there was no stopping me.  Another city friend, who’s long promised that she and a mate will visit, and 2014 would be the year, pushed up the stakes.  

She commented on Facebook that she, and her merry gang of jolly Graça buddies (you remember the eating, laughing, dancing, singing, drinking wine?), will descend on us for New Year.

I’ve been waiting two years for a visit, and there's no backing out of this.  What’s another five people?  A bigger, happier, merrier New Year, is what!

Except that now we are really out of beds.  Plans to establish a corner in the garage and turf No 2 in there for 10 days are scuppered.  A student in the garage – no problem.  Two jetlagged middle aged men from the UK and three Jozi northern suburb jet setters joining him in there – not going to happen.

And then the rental house hunt began.

As the options narrowed (who knew our neighbourhood would be swamped with out of town holiday makers?!) the benefits of networking blossomed forth.

Men will never get it – they sit in front of the sports screen, communicate in random grunts and later say they had a great time with Fred.  But what about information seeking and sharing?  What have they learned?  What problems have they solved?

Women are sorted.  Explaining the house hunt over a glass of wine, the solution was offered.  “Use my house, we’re away over those dates and the house is empty.” My ace friend in need, who lives 2 minutes away.  That’s five people accommodated in a nearby luxury house.

Then a mental checklist of seasonal things-to-do caused an internal flap.  Dad.  I haven’t allowed for my Dad.  He’s coming up over New Year for a few days.  Back to the garage, No 2!

Here’s where small town living, and my angels, come into their own (again.)  A colleague messaged out of the blue, looking for a house sitter.  For 19 Dec to 5^th Jan.  And she lives round the corner.  Number 2, and his father, have  digs for a few days.  Mission Impossible solved.

And as my mind began to quail under the pressure of menus, shopping lists, cooking and taking care of so many, another neighbourly angel explained her method of catering for large groups of visitors – she farms out dinners to one and all.  Combine that with the brilliant technique some genius friends used to cope with a large party of guests spread over two lodges recently, and Bob’s your uncle, we have lift off. 

Our lengthy guest list thus received a warm and welcoming email, detailing all the lovely activities which are available to them, using our house as a base.  

Explaining that all are responsible for their own breakfasts in the house they lodge in, lunches will be pot luck goodies tossed onto the table by whoever is around on the day, and everyone is assigned a night for which they are responsible to provide dinner for the group, and we’ll alternate houses each evening to share the mess.

Brilliant, though I say it myself. And judging by the enthusiastic response, it appears the Sergeant Major has hit upon a winner – recipe books are being dusted off, shopping lists drawn up and everyone is delighted to have the planning done and their orders issued - it’s become part of their holiday festivities! It’s a funny old world.

With the first arrivals on the horizon, this is likely to be it from me until the New Year.  Wherever you are, whatever this time of year means to you and however you spend it, may the coming days give you some breathing space for a little inner thought and reflection, a chance to be close to and spend time with family, friends and loved ones and the opportunity to count your many blessings and look forward to new adventures and experiences in 2015.

God bless.

When Middle Age Resembles Middle Earth

When was the last time you were truly and absolutely in the NOW?  Every toddler worth his salt can spend an age staring intently at a busy ant, just as every teenager wallows completely in his own immediate space and time, giving the occasional nod to his amazingly bright, prosperous and successful future.  When did we lose the ability to focus on and embrace exactly where we are, at that very minute? 

Is there an age for this, like losing teeth and hair?  Or does it accompany overstretched mental resources and the bane of busy women everywhere – just too much to do, to remember and to cope with, leaving our brains to fizz along like those demented scented bath bombs rocketing around the bath?

I’m plumping for brains bursting with filling like overstuffed armchairs.  Have you noticed when you move house just how much has collected since the last move?  Bet you never observed it accumulating in the shadows as you returned from yet another weekly successful shopping mall expedition, shoulders bowed under the weight of those bulging bags.

Yet, like those unwelcome love handles, creeping around our middles, most of what we hunt down and gather at the emporia remains inside our homes, to our surprise and often despair when we need to “pak ons goed en trek”,  (pack our stuff and move).  Yes, the goods entrance is virtually a one way street.

Oddly, the plethora of information flung at us daily via a thousand sources has the same habit – it clings stubbornly inside our brains, hiding away in nooks and crannies and trying hard not to be found when needed.  We have a super storage system with a major flaw – the indexed filing cabinet is locked, making knowledge retrieval difficult.  The older we get, the more information is glued inside groaning brain cells making recall on demand even harder. 

Which makes life extremely taxing for middle aged wives and mothers.  Not only do we suck up global news, regional news and local news, of which there is so much, this deluge joins the information we need to get ourselves out to work, ensure the family is clothed and fed, the house and garden spic and span, things are repaired and in working order, we are in a reasonably presentable state of dress and grooming and the pesky monthly accounts are paid on time.

And, we also hoover up the needs of children and husbands who don’t fill their heads with any of this, to them, useless intelligence.  Why care about what time you need to be ready, when Mum will do that for you?  Why worry about what to eat, when you can just walk in the door and ask what’s for dinner? Bob Thaves was right when he said that “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in heels.”  The fairer sex is doubly challenged!

We need a discharge button to get rid of superfluous information cluttering up our minds.

Adding to the (di)stress of coping with all of this, is doing it with failing eyesight and trying to understand technology which we didn’t grow up with, and is therefore always an ‘add-on’ skill we are not genetically engineered to manage.  

I’ll tell you about the experience of a friend who locked herself out of her iPad – it sums up the middle age chaos theory perfectly!

Harried in the run up to a family holiday overseas, tired and rushed, she entered the wrong pin on her iPad.  Several times.  Smugly, the screen demanded a PUK number.  A what?  Then, testing her patience, it wanted an IMEI number as well.  Of course, neither of those gems were written down in the old fashioned manner anywhere, meaning she had to decipher the minuscular, and very long, numbers on the back of the unit.

Picture the scene – blood pressure rising, her reading glasses perched upon her nose, phone propped to shine additional light onto the iPad, a second pair of glasses held up like a magnifying glass while she wrote down the number on a piece of paper.  Oh, for youth’s eyesight!

Victory was short-lived, because, numbers in hand, the iPad’s sleek, sneering screen snootily demanded that she call her Carrier and she then had to track down the correct Vodacom contact number for this problem.

Call centres are the devil’s work and several irritating calls down dead ends later, following the Vodacom answering misfiling system, she was taken all over the planet but wasn’t delivered to a person, or the correct department.

Giving up, she called Nashua Mobile, her service provider.  A real person answered the phone and put her through to the right person – fabulous.  And the genie knew that she’d need a paperclip to get the sim out, so sent her off to do that, promising to call her back.  Which he did, and in two shakes of a ducks tail, he found the PUK and she was back in business.  She had to choose a new PIN, and is praying that this number is one she’ll remember!

This is the twilight zone we live in.  And how ironic that cutting edge technology needs a paperclip!