Farewell to Felines, Friends and Family

It's not even midway through the day and my emotional climate has bounced about with the speed and dash of an Olympic table tennis final.  Struth, I'm exhausted!

Firstly, the heart cracked like crazy paving to say 'Cheer, darlings' to these woeful little faces. The guilt weighs heavy and the grief...

Then, blooming with the radiance of an award winning sunflower, we were treated to a fast 10 minute cuppa at OR Tambo airport with beloved No 1 Son before we stepped past the point of no return.

Him Outdoors sped us away from the coffee shop, setting records for clearing security and immigration before I could absorb that this was, in fact, yet another farewell.

It's been a long time coming but finally, today IS the day and off we set on a new adventure. 

So why the tears, heartache, fear, anxiety? This is, after all, another step in a plan to break out of the mould and live a little before we lose our teeth and reach for the zimmer frames.

All the farewells and drawing a line beneath our lovely home and life in South Africa would probably not take as high an emotional toll if our future was a little more, well, settled and structured. There are so many 'what if's' and worries, uncertainties and concerns. We've cast off without a safety net, relying on our ability to tread water and keep doggy-paddling to shore. But what if? There are many sharp rocks and hungry sea creatures out there and I do believe we forgot to pack the anti-shark spray!

The positive underlying ray of sunlight is the personal reflection and learning that never ceases, despite the unstoppable advancing years. Today reinforced a lesson learned with the arrival of babies and motherhood, knowledge that faded somewhat over the years but has pushed to the fore again.

The boundless elasticity of the heart, it's really quite remarkable. Cracked, dehydrated and broken one moment, bursting with eternal love and joy the next.

Now if only my saggy skin had the same resilience...

Luggage Allowance for Cool Cats

Houston, we have a problem! In the course of pricing travel arrangements for two cats to fly to Kenya, I've uncovered an airline scam.

The inequality between furry and human passengers didn't strike me when perusing the (eye-watering) quote, terms and conditions of travel to Kenya for Speckle and Anushka. New to the importation of pets, I was well unprepared for the logistical and expensive nightmare of relocating with my fur-babies and several glasses of icy Sav Blanc were required to absorb the exercise.

However, it was only when debating the amount of luggage Him Outdoors and I are allowed to take that the crux of the matter revealed itself. We get 30kgs each, which is not as much as it sounds when you are packing for a long term stay. 

A one way ticket for the cats, exclusive of any type of refreshment or comforts which have to be provided by the owner, is R4900 each. The same flight for us, including copious amounts of Bombay Sapphire & tonic, red wine, snacks and a 3 course meal, a staggering choice of entertainment all enjoyed from the comfort of a seat provided by the airline, is R3786 each. And we get 30kg of luggage allowance as well.

Now, Speckle can't relocate without her catnip infused scratching post - how else will she get her manicures in Nairobi? OK, I can't make too much noise about importing the cat dope but if I get a duty free allowance on Bombay and Bubbly, surely she can have her nip?

Princess Anushka absolutely cannot travel without her Furminator brush. Her life will end if thrice daily brushings come to a halt. 

More to the point, HO and I are interested in merging their luggage allowance with ours, there must be another 59kgs available for us!

While this isn't an issue right up there with global warming and world peace, it certainly deserves contemplation and discussion, surely? Equal rights for all airline passengers, I say.

In the meantime, two bored purries quietly wait. Speck already has her sunglasses to paw, ready to leap into her cat carrier. Well, actually that's a stretch. Knockout drugs are on the 'to do' list as well.

Damage Magnet

Lola, my much adored 9 year old chariot is at it again. First, her windscreen was a drawcard for sticks and stones on almost every road she traveled in her first 4 years. Her new windscreen tally is at 4, with chip repairs running into the high 30's. Only Lola could require a new windscreen after an APPROACHING bus flipped a flint forwards, catching Lola's sunglasses at such a speed and angle that the screen immediately cracked clean across. You may dispute the probability of a stone traveling in this direction but as the bus and Lola were the only vehicles on the road and the crack followed a sharp 'smack' sound as the bus and Lola converged, what other explanation is there? 

Happily, the past 4 years have been pretty quiet on the windscreen front, although she bears an impressive chip too large to repair, which stubbornly refuses to grow into an insurance claimable crack.  Lola's latest favourite habit is picking up assorted nails and screws in her pricey, barely one year old set of rubber shoes. Three punctures in the last 600kms have seen her and I spending many hours in various tyre retailers in Gauteng and Mpumalanga. They have happened in different towns, different provinces and on different road types yet two of the three were caused by these odd screws.  I've heard of 'chick magnet' but am rather glum to discover I'm the proud owner of a 'damage magnet'. Grrrr.

I guess I'm pretty lucky, though, as at least Lola has a spare tyre and all of her tyres are repairable. A dear friend bought a fancy Mercedes a few months ago and within the first 6 months has had to replace two wheels - the hidden cost of 'run flats' which should probably be banned on South African roads. The punishing rate of tyre damage caused by multudinous objects scattered on our roads is horrendous. We used to complain about pothole damage but now screws, nails and other sharp objects are laid out as if by plan to rip and shred tyres. It's a pricey business, and being stranded roadside is neither safe nor pleasant.

On the fun side, last Sunday I got to watch Him Outdoors change a tyre (a first for me, I had no idea he could!) and Lola's spare tyre, covered in those tiny rubber hairs unique to new tyres, got to emerge from it's cosy nest and finally earn it's keep.

Oh, yes, and I learned a new word. Nubbins are the tiny rubber hairs on new tyres. Fancy creating a word for such temporary items. Life is fascinating, and the English language continues to amuse. 

Trend Speak - How do phrases and idioms enter the public domain and stick?

It strikes me as rather peculiar that out of nowhere we all begin saying things like "are we singing from the same hymn sheet" or "I simply don't have the bandwidth to deal with this right now". Colouring up "do you understand what I mean?" and "My mind is too busy with other issues to focus on an extra one at the moment" is all very well, but who invents an idiomatic phrase to replace a mundane comment and who decides it's a hit?

Is there a committee closeted away in the coils of popular, trendy coffee shops, collecting and curating the modish speak they overhear while sipping vast quantities of macchiato? Maybe, armed with their arsenal of interesting phrases, they have a selection process similar to the annual Oxford Dictionary Word of the Year?

Slapped in the face a few times yesterday by the ridiculous use of 'reaching out', I began to wonder about this global crisis that hasn't hit the headlines yet. 

Seriously, of all the possible responses to an application for a project posted on a freelance writing site, which application included: submitting a CV, links to web sites I've written content for, attaching samples of published work and a quotation all covered by a cheery note explaining when I can commence and how long I estimate the job will take, a return message thanking me for 'reaching out' wasn't one I envisaged.

"Thank you for your application, we regret to decline..."
"Thanks, this looks great, can we discuss in more detail.."
"Perfect, where do we sign?"
Even blank silence would have been something I understood, but ' thanks for reaching out to us'? I didn't Reach Out, honey, I applied for work!

Then later, when I was deeply engrossed in 'Blacklist', the dratted words came out again. The glamorous FBI Profiler (yeah, I know!), her softly bewildered gaze intent on something off-screen behind the viewer, used the phrase twice in one sentence as she battled to explain why a global master criminal was offering her helpful information. 'Reach out' sounds somewhat soft and cuddly to me, the sort of phrase I associate with community and aid organisations, gently encouraging shy, battered people and animals to trust them, or a fluffy way to oil their approach into wallets. I think the scriptwriter fell in love with the 'trend speak' and sacrificed plausibility; for goodness sake, the master criminal responsible for killing thousands, dabbling in chemical weapons, stealing government secrets - he 'reaches out'?

I think not. A GMC worth his salt would demand, trade, negotiate. Trend speak works well in many instances but please can it be used judiciously?

I Do Not Like Thee, Dr Fell

The security guard in front of me at the check out queue popped his purchases onto the counter - a loaf of unsliced, brown bread and 2 litres of Coca-Cola. Driving past his guard hut a few minutes later I noticed him hungrily ripping the loaf into bite-sized chunks. Fuel for his lengthy night shift.

The lack of affordable nutrition in this country continues to irk me and, I daresay, is a significant driver behind our appalling school grades and overall lack of significant grassroots growth and progress. How can people give of their best when they are hungry, or feeding their bodies with non-nutritive calories? 

We live in a twilight world where a small tier of middle class and wealthy South Africans spend big money on Omega oils and a cornucopia of ‘nutriceuticals’ to cherish body and brain while rubbing shoulders with the vast layer of people struggling to afford enough calories to satisfy their hunger.

There is plenty of press coverage at the moment regarding the proposed ‘sugar tax’, reportedly driven by the Department of Health’s concern for the skyrocketing rates of diabetes and other, sugar fuelled, diseases. Well and good but I for one have little faith in the reasoning and integrity behind yet another tax on burdened South Africans. Does anyone remember the plastic bag levy introduced in 2003? Reams of newsprint were devoted to how this small tax (originally 3c per bag, now 8c) would fund recycling plants, provide jobs, eradicate our ‘national flower’ (referring to the number of plastic bags littering the land) and save the environment.

The proof of anything is always in the results and at the end of August 2016, R1,1 billion had been scooped up by Treasury and R5 billion pocketed by retailers on the sale of plastic shopping bags.  Buyisa e-Bag, the Section 21 company created by this initiative, whose core business was to develop entrepreneurs and create sustainable opportunities in the recycling and waste management sectors, all funded by the plastic bag tax, was closed in 2011 because it hadn’t achieved much at all. And as Treasury refuses to ‘ring fence’ tax money, the plastic bag tax wasn’t spent exclusively on Buyisa during its existence either; they received some R216 million between 2003 and 2011, a fraction of the income earned under the environmental opportunities banner. Yet consumers, their behaviour unchanged due to their lack of education by the powers that be about the environmental damage caused by these bags, continue to pay up to 75c per bag and the retailers, and fiscus, are laughing all the way to the bank.

How can we have any faith in the integrity and effectiveness of another ‘do-gooder’ tax, this time on sugar? Not for a minute do I dispute the evils of sugar and it’s addiction (hello, my name is Tracy and I’m a chocolate addict) but is a tax on sugar going to stop addicts consuming it?  After all, sin taxes on ciggies and alchohol don’t stop addicts getting their fix. While we are on the addict front, I think it’s rather mean to benefit the fiscus at the expense of an addiction in any case.

No, my concern is that one security guard and the millions of South Africans who consume sugar-laden products because they simply cannot afford healthier options.  A brief search of Shoprite’s (a local chain of low priced supermarkets) prices paints the reality of low cost food: R7.99 for 1,5L of a fizzy, sugar laden soft drink versus R22.99 for 2L of fresh milk. R4.99 for a loaf of instore baked brown bread, versus a prepacked sandwich (processed cheese and ham) R14.99.

Overarcing the entire discussion is also the lack of trust in our government to wisely shepherd and spend this money. A Treasury spokesman assures us that the new tax is not seen as a money spinner for government, as it is likely to ‘only’ raise between R1 billion and R2 billion.

From poor people who can’t afford fresh food, and addicts who can’t help themselves.  Nice one, guys. If the health of the nation was truly their intention, couldn't a better way be found than a tax?

Tom Brown’s 1680 rhyme rings ever true of our politicians.

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,

The reason why - I cannot tell;

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.

Far Fetched Nonsense

If you've been keeping abreast of recent blogs, you'll be in the picture about my recent experience of living in a communal house with 3 men. (https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/09/urrgh-men-and-commune-housework.html)

A further reminder of our differing planets was their movie collection. With no TV service in the house, we were reliant on the collection for electronic R and R at home and boy, was I in for a rude awakening.

Spoilt as we are with the darling Casterbridge Cinema in White River, and my perchant for heading straight to Cinema Nouveau when in Johannesburg, it's been years since I've watched anything on the main cinema circuit. Being Head of Purchasing for music and dvd's in our household, our collection mirrors my taste for Art house, real-life historical drama and biographies and it's never occurred to me that there is much different out there.

Wrong.

Silly, toilet humour comedies and bish, bosh, bash extraordinarily violent and loud crime dramas ruled the roost at 143 Fenniscowles Street. On the plus side, I had plenty of time to scroll through Twitter and Facebook, make a cup of coffee or replenish the wine glasses while senseless car chases and physical violence overplayed on the screen far longer than necessary.

Who watches this stuff? How many car chases have you witnessed in your life, and if any, did it involve multiple pile-ups and smashed vehicles, exploding into flame, falling off cliffs and multideck freeways? Were the 'perps' (or the goodies, who can tell?) careening in and out of oncoming traffic on the wrong side of the road, or through a series of red traffic lights that results in all other traffic crashing helplessly while the main contenders carry on?  How far fetched can this nonsense get? And it goes on for ages, accounting for a considerable percentage of the movie running time. Enough already, we get the picture!

Even worse are the beat-up scenes. You know, when the baddies have the good guy tied up and are busy torturing and thumping him? The sound effects alone are nauseating and the manner in which the director has the camera lovingly clasp the close up of knife / fist / bullet / rope deeply inserted / impacting bloody flesh indicates some serious sociopathic tendancies. Predictably, our hero always manages to escape, fight back and get to help and safety after spending the better part of 10 minutes screen time being carved and beaten into a red-fleshed mess. 

Is it necessary to linger on these revolting parts of the story and drag them out as long as they do? Show, don't tell, is a writing maxim and most people have heard 'less is more.' Plant the seed into an audience's mind and let them imagine far worse than you can show, at a fraction of the movie budget.

As you can imagine, when inveigled into joining the overgrown boys at a movie showing, those are the scenes which had me zoning out and finding reasons to leave the room. Try as I might, I can't get the attraction of watching them. Tune into the evening news for your portion of senseless violence, at least that is real life and, unbelievable as it sometimes seems, is actually possible.

Come on, fess up. What movie scenes drive you out of the room?

I Married A Cat Whisperer

Is there any truth behind the barrel loads of 'wisdom' that creep into our conversations? You know the ones about not trying to change someone, and the fervent urgings to not change yourself in order to suit a mate? 

Ja, well, no fine. I beg to differ. For instance, the world is pretty much divided into either dog or cat people, and I got hitched to a Dog Man who had a series of rather gorgeous Boerbuls. A chunky breed of dog, strappingly built with melty soft eyes and muzzles and natures to match, unless you got on the wrong side of them, then watch out. A definite match of owner to pet, in this case. We agreed to accommodate our separate choice of pet and in due course the dogs found new homes and cats ruled our roost. It just happened, I promise. No devious machinations behind the scenes. 

One of our rescue cats, Speckle, is a bit short of feline genes and owns precisely two brain cells, which rattle like marbles inside her skull. The first cell controls her body - breathe, eat, clean, walk, sleep and so on. The second is solely focused on needing love. At all times. From whoever. 

Spotting her victim, she moved in on Him Outdoors and within a few years had him fawning over her, in turn adopting him as her own. Sleeping on his lap, sitting on top of his packed suitcases and visiting him to inspect his renovations on Henry the Campervan, even daring to sit inside and keep him company. The funniest was when she plonked herself at his side once, growling fiercely when HO opened the door to an late night visitor.

I've previously mentioned how our cats loathe car trips and my circle of friends have been regaled with re-enactments of taking them to the vet or, once, a 4 hour journey during which they ceaselessly howled. It was dreadful.
https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/02/i-covered-traumatic-cat-trip-to-vetsin.html.

HO, bubbling with that boundless optimism of his, insists that packing them into Henry and embarking on a 6 week trip through 5 African countries is possible, and took their curious exploration of Henry at every opportunity to 'prove' his point - that they'll love the campervan. So, we tested his theory with a 4 hour journey on Sunday.

It's official - I married a Cat Whisperer, much as it pains me to admit he was right. Oh, at first it ran to plan. Sullenly loaded into the carriers, they waited for the magic ignition moment to begin warming up their vocal chords, preparatory to launching into the concerto.

"Let them out of the carriers," HO instructed. "They'll explore then settle down." I warned him but hey, lets prove him wrong. So out they came and voila, the volume increased exponentially and we now had a full-on version of La Boheme, sung by the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Aha, told you so.

Speckle bounced like a rubber ball from side to side, staring out of the rear window and showing off her tonsils to the vehicle behind us. Anushka climbed onto HO's lap for a look through the windscreen then curled up beneath his seat. In due course, Speckle sat on my lap and Anushka spread herself out on the bed and the journey continued peacefully. I would never have believed it and if I wasn't with them at all times, would, quite frankly, have suspected some behind the scenes doping. It simply wasn't possible that his frequent soothing 'chats' to them could have wrought this miracle. But it did.

To add insult to injury, they were rather hesitant about their new digs at first, as you would expect. But it completely took the biscuit when we discovered Speckle hiding in HIS suitcase, where she remained for a day or so.  

As the one who feeds, brushes, cares for their health and wellbeing, I do feel a little underappreciated. The bigger lesson is, however, that people in relationships do change. Whether you call it adjustment or adaptation, a dyed in the wool Dog Man is now putty in a cat's paws, while I was quite sad to see the back of Rufus and Bull, the Boerbul dogs.