MY BRIGHTLY SHINING HALO

Positively blinding, I tell you. Another long outstanding task done and dusted. Literally.

My intricately carved Chinese chest stands in my entrance hall, and therefore close to the front door. Now Cape Town is notoriously windy, so every time the door is opened, more dust blows in, and nestles cozily around the aforementioned intricate carving, all those little notches, frets, folds and crevices.

A surface dust and polish doesn’t reach these little indentations, but I’ll tell you what does: a cotton bud, dipped in teak oil. And it emerges black with the dust of ages.  In the end I finished cleaning the carving on the lid. As for the back and sides, well, maybe a dust around with a soft toothbrush another day.

The chest was an impulse buy.  About 25 years ago I was browsing around an antique shop in Kwa Zulu Natal and spotted the chest. I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I hauled out my credit card and bingo! The chest was mine. Better still,  the chest was on sale, marked down quite considerably.  Markdown or not, I was having that chest!

When I opened the lid, the dusty aromatic odour of camphor billowed out. Oh joy! A carved camphor chest: How lucky was I?

Many girls of my generation were given a wooden kist, either as a 21^st birthday gift, or  merely as  parental largesse. The idea being they could now build  up their trousseau.   Usually the kists were large,  in  a carved linenfold style. I never had one, and always hankered after a wooden kist.

 My late teen years were  difficult: my dad was stricken by a stroke, the family  had no choice but  to emigrate, and instead of going to University, I had to start working. Hence my kist-less status.

 I may have had to wait  40 years for my chest, but it was more than worth the wait.

(JAP) VALENTINE’S DAY

*JAP:  Just a paragraph to keep my blog ticking over, whilst I’m busy with longer writing projects.

My very first Valentine’s Day  card was floral, pink and blue, and covered in glitter.  I knew who it was from : Love – Sven, was a bit of a giveaway! Sven was a pimply Swedish schoolboy, in the Sixth Form, at nearby Milton Boys School. His family were friendly with my BFF’s family, also Swedish missionaries, and Birgitta loved the idea of a burgeoning romance, and started teaching me rudimentary Swedish phrases. I can politely greet you with a Goddag! But that’s about all.  And Sven? I wonder? Long ago, and far away …

Does Valentine’s Day make your heart go pitt-a-patt? Are you optimistic? Filled with rosy anticipation? Or bleak and gloomy? Or muttering about commercialization ?  Nothing wrong with red roses and chocolate so far as I’m concerned, at any time of the year!

HARDWIRED

This is a post about natural instinct, those hardwired drives, common to all living beings. In this instance a young mother dove, determined to hatch and raise chicks; my cat, very interested in a baby bird snack; and me, the observer and photographer. Not an easy combination. Gingi, got really fed up with house arrest, just before the chicks left the next.

The photos were all taken from inside my bedroom, through the window glass, which enabled me to watch the story unfold at close quarters. No fancy lenses here, just my Samsung cellphone.

Opening the venetian blind early one morning, I noticed a few sticks on top of my Hoya creeper. I rubbed my eyes, looked again and thought: surely not. how can that be a bird’s nest, on top of the creeper?

What an unsuitable place to build a nest. Zero space, and out in the open. No protective foliage. It turned out to be a dove’s nest. Male doves really have an easy life, compared to other species. Take the Weaver birds, for instance. They weave gourd shaped nests, which hang, like pendants from tree branches. The nests are strong and beautifully crafted (and this with only a beak and the occasional claw as tools!). But the male dove appears to just chuck a few thin twigs somewhere or other, and then hunt up a partner.

And here she is. Little Mother Dove. She sat day in and day out, on that flimsy nest, growing visibly more slender.

And then one morning she wasn’t on the nest. Why? I stood on tiptoe and peered through the window. Because I’m so short, I couldn’t see into the nest, but I thought I might have seen two grey rounded shapes. But I wasn’t sure …

And then Ginger started showing interest in the Hoya. Oh dear. And then he started lurking. He’s in the next pic, see if you can find him. Top right side. Lurking with intent, I’m afraid to report.

And here are the two chicks, almost ready to leave the nest.

And this is a hungry chick begging patient Mamma dove for more. They were insatiable. I never managed to catch a pic of the chicks with their heads halfway down the patient mother bird’s throat.

And then, early one morning, an empty nest. No fledglings. And no signs of mayhem, no tattered creeper, no loose feathers drifting around … I decided that the babies had flown. We do have nocturnal visits from stray cats, occasionally we have snakes, but these two doves were way too big for a snake to tackle. so I choose to believe the birds had flown. Prior to this, they’d been flexing their wings, standing up and stretching their wings, trying out their equipment as it were.

Oddly enough, mamma dove hung around the area, watching the nest from her usual vantage point on the garden wall. This went on for 36 hours and then she also flew away.

So. The end of a cycle . I was so relieved that Gingi hadn’t plundered the nest. Mamma Dove was so small and worked so hard, my sympathies were on her side!

P.S. The nesting saga took place end October, into mid November in 2023.

CHERRIES

Oh how I love cherries!

Until a couple of years ago, they were seldom seen in the shops. Now all the major chains stock them, but at a price that puts them into the Treat category. In fact, that wording appears on the FLM brand I buy in the slogan Tempting Lil’ Treats . Printed on every packet, and so true!

The cherry season is  short, about 6 weeks, mid November through to end December. I make the most of it, and to hell with the price. I don ‘t drink or smoke or gamble, so I buy cherries.  

A couple of years ago, a friend invited me to join her on a visit to a cherry farm in the Ceres District. I was thrilled: pick your own cherries! Pay by weight at the end of the day.  It sounded wonderful, until I came to grips with the blazing  sun, the sparse fruit,  the high-growing bunches of fruit, way way above my reach. For those of you who don’t know me, I am very vertically challenged i.e. terribly short. All in all, a disappointing expedition. So now I content myself with what the supermarkets offer me.

Cherries are my favourite fruit.  They look so appealing – that luscious dark red colour, the  smooth shiny texture of each firm cherry, and then the tart but piercingly sweet taste as you take the first bite … nothing equals the taste of a ripe cherry.

I have this idle thought of being on my deathbed, and being asked What is your dying wish? And my faint whisper from my dry, papery lips requests a bowl of ripe cherries.

If a cherry was the last food I ever ate, that would be fine by me.

TETRIS, ANYONE ?

So this 13 yr old kid in the US,   Willis  Gibson beat the AI that runs Tetris! Amazing! Human beats AI. Well done! 

 But, on the other hand , should I be worried about the future of the human race?  An evolving 13 year-old brain into a super-computer ?  Be fascinating to see a brain scan of this kid’s brain. What would we find? An enlarged primary motor cortex?  Or a jungle of new synapses?  Or a strange alien implant in his cerebellum ?  **

You’ll have to excuse me. I was forced to spend time with a fervent  Conspiracy Theorist at a New Year’s Day Lunch event.  And I listened politely, restraining  my tongue, and trying to wipe the shocked, incredulous expression off my face.  Not so my neighbour who forcefully interrupted with What Nonsense! At frequent intervals.

Driven beyond endurance, I started to weigh in with reasoned facts and logic, but I might just as well have saved my breath. It’s a no-win contest with the brainwashed.

But back to Tetris. I checked out Google Game Store, and realised I’ve been playing variants of the game for years, on my phone. The closest of which is Falling Word Search. It’s a word game, in which you compose words from falling (literally) letter tiles, which land randomly, any which-way up, down or sideways, and as the game progresses, so does the arrival speed of the letters. When they start falling outside of the framework, you know you’ve been beaten by your arthritic fingers and geriatric brain and the algorithm.  Mind you, I have achieved 4-digit scores …  but my target is a 5 digit score.

Try it, and let me know how you like the game.

**  I wrote this post in early January. Yesterday, I learn that one of Elon Musk’s companies, Neuro-something or other, has implanted a chip in a live human brain, for medical reasons; something to do with motor  movements or the like. So my off-hand remarks in para 2 were not so far off the mark, it seems !

THE LAST CRUMBS OF CHRISTMAS

My pic shows chocolate coloured crumbs plus a fragment of … what?  A patterned biscuit?

Yes, my friends, there it is. The final mouthful of my particular Christmas favourite: a Speculaas biscuit. They only appear in our shops around Christmas time, and if/when I spot a packet, I buy it with indecent haste, ignoring the sugar content and the price.

The biscuits are imported from Holland, and this particular packet contained biscuits stamped with  a Dutch windmill on each biscuit. I  suspect they are a traditional annual treat.  I know that German cooks make wonderful hazelnut biscuits, specially for Christmas.

They are slightly chocolatey, not that sugary,  but rich with spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice and more I’m sure. I’ve never Googled for ingredients or a recipe, I’m content to enjoy them as an extra special Christmas treat.

If you’ve never eaten one, then please make a diary note at the end of November to keep a sharp eye out for a packet of Speculaas and give yourself a huge Christmas treat!

So that’s it. The Festive season is now officially over. Sigh. But on the plus side, in ten months’ time, we can do it all over again! Yay – or not, depending on your attitude to the Silly Season, or the Festive Season. Meanwhile: Bon Voyage for the intervening 10 months, and take heart, there are plenty of other biscuits on offer.  

SALUTARY JANUARY HOUSEKEEPING

So here we are, a brand new year, filled with promise, potential and already flagging resolutions. Oh go on, admit it, you know you’re thinking: why ever did I resolve to …..   fill in the blank. Lose weight? Give up wine? Chocolate? Eating altogether? Binge watching TV  … the choices are endless.

I did commit to doing something daily  for the month of January. So far, Day 20 and forging on. No, I’m not telling you what it is. And no, none of the above. It’s personal . If I make it to Day 31 I might report the fact – or not.  Time will tell.  First of all, I need to accomplish it. Onwards!

What I did accomplish yesterday – braggy blast of trumpets – was to clean up my Outlook Express address book . Names from yesteryear. Other names that leave me thinking: who on earth is that? Why are they in my Address Book?

A few have died. Others have moved out of my social orbit. And still over a hundred entries remain.

So much of my communication is via WhatsApp, an essential tool in my life. I seldom send e-mails any more. But its handy to have an e-mail address to receive bulletins/newsletters/retail info/online magazines.

What’s your prime method of communication?

A VERY SENIOR MOMENT

  

Readers: I confess to a very Senior Moment.

The consequence wasn’t life threatening, but it was very smelly!

I forgot I’d turned the stove on, continued with other lunch preps, until the most dreadful smell wafted my way.

I had  forgotten about the broccoli. It wasn’t well-cooked, or caramelised, to use a trendy cooking term. Baldly stated: it was burnt.

I had to quarantine the pot in my kitchen yard, to get the smell out of the house.

Yup:  that bad.

I think I’ve wrecked my useful little, non-stick pot that was just the right size for cooking my daily dose of broccoli.

Curses.      

Perhaps you have Senior Moments that you’d like to share? Probably not. I understand.

For some strange reason I no longer have any desire to eat broccoli.

BLOGANUARY

    

I am filled with admiration for the industrious bloggers who have taken up WordPress’ annual challenge. As a writing practice for lazy or under-motivated bloggers, the challenge is  a great kick starter for the new year, no doubt about it.

 A blog post a day, for a month?  Ummm … no …. Not for me.

But it sounds easy doesn’t it? There doesn’t appear to be  any restriction on length, and WP are publishing  daily  writing prompts, both of which are potentially helpful.  So why the hesitation?  For starters, it’s time consuming. It’s not the writing that’s the sticky patch, it’s the photos that take time, or inserting the clip art.

 And the other obstacle is our infamous Load Shedding a.k.a. rolling blackouts that we have to dodge around on a daily basis. I work on a desktop which limits keyboard time. Life in South Africa … heigh ho. Onward & upwards, etc.

Fellow South African, Tannie Frannie, is steaming ahead. But in Afrikaans, which means that I only get the general gist of her posts, not 100%. I speak Kombuis Afrikaans (Kitchen Afrikaans i.e. mundane, general) but long compound words, which abound in the language, generally defeat me.  Here’s the link:  https://frandr.wordpress.com/

Another example:  that stalwart blogger Jan Wilberg of Red’s Wrap  posts daily, and for 14 years, nogal.  A round of applause for Jan – that’s for sure .

https://reds-wrap.com/2024/01/07/

I think my target will be one post a month, minimum,  which is very doable. Or maybe I should aim for one post per fortnight? Or – the height of daring : one post per week! I’m dithering. Something I do well. Finish projects that I’ve started? Not so well. In fact, epic fail usually.

It’s not to late to join the challenge. Go on, I dare you! https://bloganuary.wordpress.com/

LIFE’S LITTLE MYSTERIES

Ever had an itchy elbow? Of all odd places, but itchy as hell. Little raised bumps. Not red, hot itchy bumps.   So not a mozzie bite, I’m  familiar with those. A passing flea? Donated by the ever-generous cat? Unlikely,  because he’s not scratching constantly. I give up. Officially classified as One Of Life’s Little Mysteries.

Here’s another OOLLM. There I was, blearily staggering through my kitchen at 0255  one morning this week, with the cat complaining at my heels and me snarling: no, I am NOT  feeding you at this time of the morning!  And wondering why  the cat was staring into his feedbowl which did contain cat kibble … AND a large, glistening slug, which was noshing on his cat kibble. Huh?  Slugs eat cat kibble?  But more to the point: where did it come from?  We’re indoors, remember, dry and secure. Doors and windows tightly closed.  Not outdoors in a damp environment.

How on earth did a slug arrive in my kitchen?  And banquet on cat food in the wee small hours?

I have absolutely no idea.  Do you?

Officially classified as One of Life’s Little Mysteries.

Forget about the excitement of UFOs and the mysterious  Origin  of Life … I’m just focusing on my own humdrum little life. That’ll do me. Any of LLMs that you’d care  to share?

Oh, and by the way, I virtuously picked up the slug, using a piece of kitchen roll, opened the front door and deposited it in a pot plant. Peace to all beings. No animals were harmed in the writing of this post.