Can someone please  tell  me where the cucumbers have gone? By which I mean proper cucumbers, like we used to have in the Olden Days. You know: a short 6 to 8 inches – sorry, my brain doesn’t work in centimetres – stout , tubular, yellowish-green vegetable that was plentiful, and also cheap. In fact, they were as cheap as chips. No longer. The only options available now are the long, dark green  English cucumbers, shrink wrapped to extinction. Not only this, they cost the earth. Must be the cost of the plastic shrink wrap. And don’t get me started the topic of plastic. I shall stow away my soapbox and continue my rambling train of thought.

And here’s another thing that appears to be heading for the horizon and disappearing at a rapid rate. The fax machine. Yes – you heard me.  Cape Talk Radio recently revealed that there’s a generation of young people mid teens to early twenties, who don’t really know what a fax machine is. They are of course totally up to speed with anything electronic. Need to transmit a document?  Sure! You scan it in. Of course. You want what? To fax it ? no … uh uh – our copy shop doesn’t do that. I kid you not.

I can recall, in the mid-80s attending a demo of the new gadget that was going to revolutionise office admin forever. We watched open-mouthed as the rep showed us how the contraption worked. We gasped in admiration. It was like magic! It was revolutionary. I remember thinking: this is going to change business forever. And the fax machine did. No more posting a letter and sleepily waiting for a reply a week later. No way. This was INSTANT. No more “we haven’t got an answer yet – we’ll let you know”.

I was correct. Business was never the same again. The (now archaic) fax machine was the lumbering forerunner of the electronic age.  How things have changed in the last thirty years. As they do, as is natural.

But I still want to know: where can I find a decent cucumber?





The Japanese guru of Tidying Up, petite little Marie Kondo,  titled her best seller Spark Joy: an Illustrated guide to the Japanese Art of Tidying. And her minimalist approach to possessions, homes,  and hoarding, has been a huge hit.

Look: we all know we have way too much STUFF. You know: STUFF. The treasures, the trash, the bargains, the forgotten items that clog our cupboards, gum up our garages, and – in some cases of extreme hoarding – actually bury us under its toppling mountains.

She has a no-nonsense, no holds barred approach to STUFF. She’s drawn up a list. Of course she has. It’s the official Kondo battle-plan.

First you blitz your clothes. I had a ruthless kamikaze raid on my clothes and heaved bags of clothes to charity with a few items to friends – the nearly new and the pretty good. The silk dressing gown in the hideous  swirling design of orange and turquoise, which I’d kept for over 20 years for sentimental reasons and worn twice. What a relief to toss it!  Actually it felt good to say goodbye to old, worn garments.

Next on the list – oh dear, shudder, tremble: Books. I have a stash of To Be Read books secreted in my built-in cupboard, away from public gaze. The pile is so enormous, I’m embarrassed to own it publicly. It’s composed mainly of sale bargains – I haunt book sale tables and seldom come away without at one book tucked into my bag. And then there’s the awful temptation of on-line book buying. To compound matters, the crafty devils now offer free door-to-door delivery … irresistible.

Somehow I forced myself to dive into the depths and I was pretty good.  I didn’t count my rejects, but it’s probably around 20 books. Not bad for a bookaholic.

What I need now is a good, stiff drink. Never mind that I don’t drink alcohol. I deserve one. I’ve had enough Kondo-ing for one day – no, for at least a month.

It’ll have to be a pot of strong coffee and half an hour with a book I retrieved from the TBR pile.  I’ve earned it!










I think we all have an idea of what constitutes perfection, whether it be found  in Art, Nature or Science. We hanker after the perfect summer’s day; or we wish for the perfect partner; or pray for the perfect child to grace our lives; or fantasize about the perfect meal.

Occasionally our wishes are granted and we witness the perfect sunset over the ocean, a symphony of clouds, colours and light, and we recognise perfection. Perhaps we’re watching a figure-skater glide over the ice in a series of exquisite patterns, each  more complex than the last, to finally achieve a dazzling pinnacle of movement. The perfect moment.

Maybe we’re presented with the perfect gift, that embodies thoughtfulness and  generosity on the part of the donor and delighted satisfaction that at last, we now own the desired object; and it is indeed perfect.  Everybody’s version of perfection will be different. We are, after all, a wildly varied species. What embodies perfection for one, will baffle others.

The common denominator in the case of perfection is: rarity. That’s why perfection is so highly valued. We rarely encounter it and when we do, we treasure it.  Perfection however, is not confined to the sublime, to the artistic, to vast expenditure. It can and does occur in mundane  settings. For instance, the episode that prompted me to write this post, took place yesterday in a shopping mall, at lunch-time.

I had a yen for fish & chips. So I ordered a small portion of grilled hake, with chips and paid R29-00 for my lunch.  Pretty soon the waitron arrived with my plate of fish ‘n chips. Nothing fancy, no garnish.  Condiments in sealed plastic sachets; white paper napkin wrapped around the cutlery. A bare formica table, a plastic chair. What could be more ordinary ?

The fish was moist, tender, grilled to perfection with exactly the right amount of melted butter and a teeny sprinkle of herbs floating atop the golden juice. The chips were light, crisp on the outside, floury on the inside, and hot, hot, hot. Clearly just out of the fryer. And not a drop of oil or sogginess to mar the hot, savoury crunch.

In short: the perfect plate of fish and chips. And this from a humble Fish-away franchise in a foodcourt, at Bayside Mall, Tableview. Perfection in the mundane.









Yet again I’m re-classified.  See my April 2015 post : APPARENTLY I’M A STRAY, ELDERLY  LABRADOR DOG . This time I’m doing the re-naming. Not the younger generation.  By now you’re thinking: what? has the woman discovered an unpalatable truth about her heritage? No, no dear readers. For many years, S.O.B.  was the euphemism used in American fiction to avoid the insulting term “son of a bitch”.  I am now using the term to describe myself as a Silly Old Bat. Much more ladylike, and absolutely true.

Why am I admitting to being a silly old bat?  I recently used my Mastercard to buy a theatre ticket on-line, and I hesitate to admit this, punched in the wrong pin number. What’s more, I used the wrong number three times.  Consequently, my bank refused to have anything to do with further transactions on my Mastercard. this in turn meant I had to go to the Bank, grovel, admit to being a  s.o.b. and   … oh it’s a boring story, and proves that old women frequently get their brains in a tangle, despite valiant efforts to  avoid making silly, old lady mistakes.

Like I said: I’m a S.O.B.  Disempowered by a pin. Aging brain cells betraying me yet again. Pins usually keep two objects together don’t they? Think safety pins. My Mastercard pin did nothing of the sort. It proved to be my un-doing.

The poet who proclaimed Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be, definitely wasn’t living in the electronic age. Furthermore, he was way off beam with this couplet. Old age has very little to recommend it let alone qualify for inclusion in the Best category.





(Just a Paragraph:  when I’m short of time and/or inspiration, I keep my blog ticking over with ‘just a paragraph’; random thoughts, reflections, comments, ideas … little snippets)

2016 will go down as the Year I Made Cocoa. On a chilly, wet, grey day, nothing beats a cup of hot cocoa. Not your instant stuff. Proper cocoa, that comes out of the tin in a rich brown fine powder, that has to be carefully sprinkled into hot milk, and has to be stirred briskly to mix. Then boiling water is added, followed perhaps by a healthy dollop of tinned Ideal Milk – I adore   Ideal Milk, it’s one of my many weaknesses. I think it stems from childhood, when my Mum made jelly, and whipped a tin of Ideal milk into the jelly, to produce a divine, fluffy, light as air pudding – what a treat that was. But a summer treat, that’s for sure. Right now it’s mid-winter in Cape Town and because we live in a Mediterranean type climate, our winters are mild and wet.  After our dreadful El Nino induced drought, the wet is very welcome, but it’s chilly and damp, so hot cocoa fits right in.  As my fridge magnet sagely observes: Chocolate is the answer! Who cares about the question?



Filed under PRESENT & FUTURE

STATION ELEVEN – by Emily St John Mandel

  Book Review

I waited  nearly two years for the book to surface in a bookstore or library in Cape Town. In the end I succumbed to Book Depository’s excellent prices and bought it on-line. It was worth both the money and the wait.

The book is a dystopian novel set in Canada after a world ‘flu pandemic kills 99% of the population.

A small group of actors and musicians band together to form the Travelling Symphony. Not only do they perform music, but also Shakespearean plays, which have proved to be the most popular items in their repertoire. Despite the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know it,  Shakespeare’s work proves to be enduring!

Twenty years later they are still travelling on their well established circuit in the Great Lakes region, visiting the tiny settlements where people are gamely starting over.

What was so good was that the story didn’t haul out the tired tropes of Mad Max, or a pack of Zombies!  However, a religious polygamous  cult who provided the  danger element to the story, which affected lead character Kirsten. Both  Kirstin and the cult  proved to be linked directly back to the pivotal character,  Arthur Leander.

The book is beautifully written and  elegantly plotted. Despite the grim premise, the story is engaging and the characters likeable. The theme of Interconnectedness is cleverly woven through the narrative, via the life of Arthur Leander, a famous actor; we see him before and during the pandemic, and the reverberations of his life continuing to affect survivors  in the post-apocalyptic world.

The interesting issues were:

What the world lost (apart from inhabitants) : technology and science – there’s no electricity and therefore no Internet  – imagine the effect of these losses on daily life?

And a big question: what – or even who – would you save as you fled to the wilderness away from the plague?  Lead character Kirstin grabs seemingly inconsequential items and stuffs them in to her backpack, and escapes. The objects play an important role in joining together the puzzle pieces of the story.

A wonderful 5 star read. I loved it.



Filed under BOOK REVIEWS


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Chocolat calling. Yes, AGAIN.  Twice in twelve days. I know it’s a bit much, but you’ll just have to put up with me. I have to get this off my chest. Actually, my whiskers are severely ruffled, I don’t mind admitting it.

Ever since my Personal Assistant  returned from The Wedding, she’s been burbling on about Fuggly the FarSide Farm cat. Apparently this Fuggly person made a big impact on my PA. I can’t think why. Here’s Fuggly  lounging on a Persian carpet at FarSide Farm.  Kindly note, she’s a portly person, wearing  common old tabby stripes.  No comparison to my sleek lines and rich brown coat. The prettiest thing in the picture is the magnificent Oriental carpet, don’t you agree?

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It seems that Fuggly was rescued by Noble Hero, Graham, when she was an abandoned kitten.  NHG was driving way out in the sticks. Luckily the dirt road forced him to drive slowly, otherwise he would have driven over the scrap of a kitten lying in the road – burnt, dehydrated, flea infested, starving, a whisker away from death. NHG picked her up, nursed her back to life at his FarSide Farm, where she now supervises weddings. As you can see from the picture below she is checking out the table decorations and keeping a close eye on the preparations.


Due to her exacting standards, the tables looked very striking once they were completed.


Fuggly didn’t stay for the wedding  reception. She doesn’t care for loud music and dancing feet. Little cats tend to get trodden on, in all the excitement. However, Gulliver, a very grand person also in residence at FarSide Farm, graced the festivities with his presence, by lounging just below the bridal couple’s central table. Unfortunately my PA didn’t take a picture of him, so she’s begged a studio portrait from Olivia, the unflappable FarSide Farm Events Manager.

Iphone pics Nov 14-3

Gulliver likes to try and lord it over Fuggly, because he’s an Abyssinian , and I must say, as another purebred person, I agree with his attitude.

I don’t t understand why my PA keeps on talking about Fuggly and Gulliver. I mean, she has me in residence, 24/7, devotedly providing hot-water bottle services under the duvet nightly; singing her awake on cold winter mornings; bringing gifts of mice, birds, grasshoppers, lizards.  Really, there’s just no pleasing humans! I think I shall retire to my cat cave and sulk.

P.S. If you’re wondering why my picture at the top is so big? of course it is. I’m the most important person. Surely I don’t have to remind you ?










Chocolat here.  I’m speaking to you from my cat’s cave. See pic above. I’m in there, trust me, it’s the warmest place. Because my fur is such a rich, dark brown, you can’t see too much of me – maybe my two eyes, and not much else.  Human eyesight is so feeble, compared to mine. I’m perched on my warmed grain-bag . I’ve trained my Personal Assistant to warm it in the microwave during winter. Because my fur is so short, I feel the cold dreadfully.

Since returning from The Wedding my PA hasn’t been very productive. She seems to spend hours with her nose in a book. I have never understood humans’ fascination with those things. I think they’re terribly dull, they don’t move, or run like lizards and mice. I can’t see the point of them. Anyway, my meals are still arriving at regular intervals, as well as early morning milk, so that’s the main thing.

I’m in good health and spirits as you can see from my pic at the end of this post. No doubt my PA will return to her keyboard. Perhaps when it’s warmer? Watch this space – Chocolat.


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I’m going to be AFK, en route to another Family Wedding. A juicy topic for blogging.

Who gets invited?  Distant family  members who only appear at Weddings and Funerals, and are mortally offended  if they’re not invited.   Then there’s the gossip about those who were/were not invited, the whispers about long-standing feuds – excursion into tribal history. Most of it unedifying, all of it fascinating.  Families!

And then the vexed question of What to Wear?   As the matriarch of my small family, I cannot lurk in the back pew in a comfy pair of trousers and my Skechers .  So I’ve been combing the shops for something – anything ! – that doesn’t cost the earth, and which I will be able to wear on other occasions. My clothes have to march bravely on for years and years.

Additionally, I don’t lead a life filled with dressy occasions, so I don’t have anything in the cupboard to fall back on.  Apart from my beautiful simple white jacket, made for me by my dear Mother at least 17 years ago. It gets hauled out for infrequent grand events. Because its a polyester linen it washes like a dream – thanks Mum – I wish I’d asked you to make me a black one, and a navy one, and perhaps a yellow one too. Alas: too late now.

So:  the cat-sitter is organised, the suitcase is semi-packed. I’m scurrying around like a demented meerkat tying up loose ends, crossing off lists, adding diary notes –  aaarrgggh … I’m my own worst enemy – too many projects, despite my 2016 resolution not to be so busy.  Note to self:  After Easter – say ‘NO’, and relax on the couch with your tapestry.  Okay. Will do.

Meanwhile, dear readers  Chocolat is holding the fort, terrifying the house-sitter while I gad around the Republic.  Toodle-ooo!


*afk –  Absent from keyboard





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The ferocious wind blasts straight off Table Bay, over the tangled grey concrete dolosse , doesn’t even pause at the barrier, roars into the market ground, driving a stinging curtain of sand, that patters on impact and abrades exposed human skin. No wonder the vendors are dressed in long sleeved shirts and windcheaters, despite the blue skies and sunshine.

The wind tears at vendors’ hats, but they’re  secured by elastic under the chin, regardless of appearance or fashion. So the wind swirls papers and plastic bags up, up and away; it thrums through  guy-ropes on gazebos,  and whistles keenly around the corner of bakkies. It whisks playfully around the blue flames on the gas braais, but doesn’t quite succeed in extinguishing the flames. The mounds of onions are browning in the frying pans,  teaming up with the aroma of sizzling boerewors on the braai grids. Oom Chris ‘s khaki fishing hat is jammed low over his ears, his red face a study in concentration as he guards his wors against over-cooking. Tannie Marie is flitting between the onion frying, and scraping minimal marg onto hotdog rolls. The smell is intoxicating.


Down the line the Muslim ladies are setting up their stall.  No spicy daaltjies today, worse luck. Only  sweet, sticky, pink coconut-coated koeksusters. Next to the foodstalls there’s a display of shiny silver pressure cookers, obviously new, laid out in a neat row on a tarp spread on the ground. Did they fall (conveniently) off the back of a lorry, into enterprising hands?

Another suspicious display is an entire stall of branded cleaning products – no wonder those red, white and blue labels look so familiar, they’re well known products that are standard supermarket merchandise.  Hmmmm. How did they arrive at the market … perhaps best not to enquire.

Many of the vendors have rickety trestle tables piled with bric-a-brac, rusted cake tins, baking tins, tarnished egg beaters, odds and sods: in a word – junk. There’s mechanical junk laid on tarps at ground level:assortments of nuts, bolts, washers, rods, rusty tools, lengths of piping, angle-iron off-cuts, bits of this and that. Most of these items are beyond second-hand, and only fit for the scrap heap. Maybe that’s where they came from!

A man picks up a battered pick-axe, and bounces it experimentally up and down on the ground, over and over. Donk-donk-donk. What’s he testing? The strength of the handle? Or to see if the metal head is cracked? At the rate he’s going, it soon will be! His actions are driving a nearby Jack Russell absolutely nuts. The little dog is straining desperately against his collar and the rope that’s attached to his owner’s bakkie wing-mirror. The dog is dying to race over to the man and do something – anything – about that bouncing pick-axe, but even his manic terrier strength cannot break a nylon rope.  But the wing mirror strut may well break before the rope does!

Striding through the market is a lady in full purdah get-up, with only a narrow slit for her eyes, and they’re hidden behind dark glasses.  She’s even wearing black gloves but  surprisingly, white ankle socks and cream coloured shoes.  Tall, black and mysterious,  she’s a complete contrast to the shopping couples – the men in shorts, tees and shades; the women in strappy tops, cute short skirts, flip-flops displaying varnished toenails  – summer holiday gear for the shoppers,  but not for the traders who have to withstand the buffeting wind all day.

The Parking Attendants are all senior citizens – weather beaten and tanned to an inch of their lives, puffing gamely on their cigarettes, despite the gale force wind. Two sunburnt, wrinkly women are sheltering behind a big double-cab 4×4 having a smoke, and engaged in a  dramatic recital of a complicated family saga that is punctuated with So I said, Charmayne, you can’t do that! And she said … but the wind blows away the tale of woe, along with streamers of cigarette smoke.

Two young guys roar away on their motor-bikes, spinning up loose gravel as they plunge onto the R27.  The noon gun booms from Lions Head.  Seagulls are squabbling over a discarded boerie roll. Time to get out of the wind, go home for lunch and come bargain-hunting again next week!