Did some ancient housewife leave a jar of cow’s milk (or worse, goat’s milk) behind the pumpkin harvest?  Is it possible that years later she came across the stone crock and decide that this object was edible, even by the pigs in the mud across the way?

Well somebody must have said “well, it looks like shit and it smells like shit – let’s eat some” and then had the fortitude to wait the six month’s or so to see if any adverse effects resulted (sort of like rabies).

Look, I admit there was not a hell of a lot of variety in those days.  You had your berries, your roots, milk from your cow and meat when the cow died of old age.  You were required to be adventurous in your gastronomic quests.  Just look at the poor bastard who thought mushrooms were delicious until he ate a deadly nightcap or whatever it was that whacked him pretty fast.

But ancient vrot hairy cheese.  Were they mad?

And today you are considered a filthy heathen if you don’t relish camembert, brie, roquefort, stilton and other repulsive things.  People say, have a taste … it is delicious.  Try it deep-fried with cranberry preserve, lip-smacking.

All I want to do with it is apply a thick coat of Mycota to its surface and see what happens.  Athletes’ feet cheese … um … deep fried.

God almighty

Try looking at it from my point of view.  There is this woman whom you take into your home (or she is already there when you come home from the hospital all tender and wrinkly).  She cleans and washes your clothes and your linen (so actually sees things that no-one else does), she may cook your dinner, she picks up your baby and, very business-like) straps the howling child snuggly to her back and carries on with her day. 

Just slightly off the track here.  What must these women have thought of those very funky baby-holding devices that you strapped to yourself in a tangle of straps and buckles?  Then you pop the child inside in a kangeroo-like pouch? 

These white people are truly a strange lot.  Look where they put the baby, you can spill your tea on his head, you can drown him in dirty dishwater, you can’t get down on your hands and knees to find the needle that you dropped – hau, she has bashed the kid’s head against the floor again.  These white people … no, no give me that baby before you kill it.” 

Out comes the softly washed blanket and the child is tucked on her back with its head supported and turned carefully to one side.  Massive old pin and much tucking and … there we go … happy child, happy women. 

So, if the Miss Denisa has any integrity, empathy and love for this black person who makes her life so much easier, Miss Denisa will worry about Jane’s children who are back in Queenstown living with their grandmother.  Miss Denisa will lend her money when there is a need.  They will talk about their respective lives.  Heartsore and joy will be shared.  Miss Denisa will offer advice when she can and Jane will know that in some of these strange ways of the world, Miss Denisa probably knows better than she does.  She may know bugger-all about how to carry her baby but that’s ok.

When a family member dies in Jane’s home town, money is given to her to travel back home for the huge family funeral and to assist with the coffin and the slaughtering of the animal.  Jane’s pain is felt.

So when Palela Pumpkin (my Jane-name) does something wrong, there is one warning shaken index finger and then next is the slap on the backside.  Palela Pumpkin is now in the dog box and she knows it will be a while before she will be invited back for a cup of tea made by Jane in her kaia (Her room/home). 

Sour Porridge (my younger brother) however is invited in and he can sit on his haunches in this tiny room with its tomato boxes lined with beautifully embroidered cloths.  Carefully placed on these shelves are Jane’s treasured, mismatched but small and elegant tea cups.  These are kept only for guests.  Jane prefers her giant enamel mug.  She primed the primus stove and set the water on to boil and then tea made, she added the magical ingredient – condensed milk.  Still on his haunches Sour Porridge would flash triumphant looks at me.  Outside and watching.  Sour porridge could look at her high single bed, standing four-square on 5 litre paint tins to keep clear of the Tokolosh.  It was like a high altar dressed in perfectly pristine white embroidered linen.  Some large plain white sheets, some small embroidered pieces lying in graduated pieces making up the whole.  The bed.  Never did you ask to sit on it although you could imagine how wonderful it must be on those feathery fluffy drifts of white and so high as to be able to see the horizon.

When Jane fell ill, we paid for medical treatment.  When Jane’s husband came to visit her and stay the night (a very dignified fairly elderly gentleman who always wore a hat), he knew a delicious dinner awaited.  Cooked by a combination of black and white hands.  We were not totally stupid as kids – we knew if there was any sign of police we would run and warn Richard and he would disappear because he was not permitted to be in our area.  He did not have the correct “pass”.

Richard loved Sundays.  My Dad loved Sundays.  They both loved Sundays due to a mutual love of good food.  My Dad planned all week for the great Sunday lunch.  Before that though there was the huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, baked bean and tomato stew, toast and coffee.  Richard’s particular favourite was the baked bean and tomato stew but he had to leave room for the lunch (which, thank goodness, was only served at 2 or 3 in the afternoon). 

The feast of a lunch was normally of German origin, lovingly made by my Dad.  I got the short straw and was left with the washing up.  But I learnt all those recipes from my Dad.  They were passed down to me along with his values through DNA and sheer concentration.

Yes, Jane was treated like one of the family.  Was that wrong?  Was that paternalistic?  Maybe.  But you, when you trudge home from your bookkeeping job at IBM or AECI, do you feel as cared for?  IBM and AECI and the like are certainly not paternalistic and do they give a shit when they boot you out because they are down-sizing?  Nope.  They don’t give you a second thought.  But hey, you are granted all the dignity you could possibly wish for.

Hope your arm is starting to show some improvement.  But don’t worry in the meantime I have plenty to tell you.

I am about as popular as a pork sausage in a synagogue.  Tim’s vet appointment was for 10 am this morning.  I knew that Pat had to fetch stock in Durban and as he was waving his cheque book at me when he left, I assumed that he was going right away.  Now to get to Durban and back and then back to Kloof by 10 is a nigh on impossible feat but I did not want to start a whole palava about “was there time” etc.  I just asked Pat, as he walked out the door, to remember Tim’s appointment.
 
At about 09:40 I start to really get worried about him making it but I did not want to phone him on the road, have him do a mad speeding dash and get into an accident.  Eventually I had to phone him and ask him where he was.  Very casually he says:  “I am walking up the driveway at work having just bought myself a coke.  Why?”  Ok, you know me, all reason flies straight up my anus and I start to scream “Tim’s appointment is at 10!”  He says:  “I thought it was at 12″ and then I say about 300 times “Ten, ten, ten, ten, ten …” 
 
So as he tries to break the land-speed record getting here I phone the vet and say we are going to be late and was there any chance Dr T could see him later?  Receptionist tells me the last appointment is at 10:30 and then Dr T has to start operating.
 
So another land-speed record is broken (and we are nearly taken out by a truck who decides to overtake in front of us when we are about 6 inches from his back tires and going at about 160km).  I think we got there at 10:45 by which time Dr T had scrubbed and gloved and all that and was about to start a 2 hour op.  I just sat down and said:  “Well, I am buggered because there is no time I can kill until she gets out”  The only thing in danger of dying at this stage is me.  So my darling beloved angel-faced Dr T came out of surgery, they took Tim through to her and she took his blood and weighed him.  Then she rescrubbed and started the whole sterile procedure again.  She gave the nurse instructions for his meds, phoned reception to tell them to tell me he had put on a bit of weight and that they would ring with the blood results.
 
Then we drove home.  Very silently.  Very very silently.  When we got home Pat swallowed a box of bicarb of soda and told me that he was going back to work.  I don’t know where his cell phone is because he was throwing it around the car and it was ricocheting off seats and dash boards and rear windows etc.

He can be really unreasonable at times.

I am sorry to hear about your sore arm.  I agree, rest it for a few days and then you can start using your e-mail again.  I was thinking … have you a sink yet?  Perhaps it is all that bucket carrying that is causing the problem.

I see Mrs Khumalo is driving Mr K’s Murano so she must have either passed her driving test, bought one or is driving without benefit of one at all.  In this case she must have a bundle of R50 notes for the traffic police in case she is stopped and asked to present her license.  I also know those flipping sunglasses are not prescription ones and she is as blind as a bat without her specs.  The Murano is already bearing bright red stripes along one side where she had an altercation with a postbox. 

Oh well, she seems to be getting to the hair saloon as the weave is out and she is now sporting funny little blobs in precise lines on her head.  She is – quite honestly – worse at this hair malarkey than Mrs van Boerenkamp’s daughter, Atilla.  With Atilla one day it’s pink, one day it’s blue but the most memorable one of all was when she came home with a brush like thing on the top of her head and the rest cut razer short with zig-zags in it. 

I could hear Johan bellowing from my house (and as you know that is quite a distance).  Now I could be wrong but I think what he was saying went along the lines of  “Geen f*kken dogter van myne gaan in hierdie huis inkom met hare soos a vervlakste hoenderhaan.  Jy kan in the garage gaan f*kken slaap and jou ma sal vir jou bietjie braaivleis inbring maar jy kry GEEN F*KKEN PAP NIE.  As jou f*kken hare regkom can jy kom apologise maar jy is geground vir die volgende ses maande.  Verstaan jy?  Ek het nooit in my lewe so baie kak gesien!  Hoe kry jy dit reg  jou vervlakste stupid meisie?”

It is just as well I had my microphone hanging outside the window at that point (to record bird-song, Flo!  To record the bird-song) as I would never have remembered all that Afrikaans.

He is a very nice gentleman, is Mr van Boerenkamp.  Just a little too fond of his “Klippies and Coke” and also, I must admit, I don’t like it when he throws his chop bones over the hedge for old Mrs Colebank’s dog, Filofax, to chew on.  I don’t think that is right.  It once cost old Mrs Colebank R500 for the vet to remove the bone from the dog’s backside.

I wonder about Mrs Ackerman.  I really do … and I am starting to worry about you associating with her.  If you start talking about your cookie outside the confines of your home, I will have nothing more to do with you.

But, let me tell you, Flo.  Mrs Naidu across the road had the most beautiful Jacaranda tree growing … well half on the pavement and half in her actual property.  The original owner (can’t have been Mrs Naidu because I can’t see her laying out more money to build a custom-made fence) actually put their palisade fencing up with a dog-leg around the tree.

Anyway, the other day I am across borrowing a cup of icing sugar (for the top of my shortbread, Flo … not for any cookie business) and I saw this bloody great truck draw up, about a hundred workers jump off and then I see a chainsaw.  I was horrified.  Surely they were not going to chop that beautiful tree down.  They certainly were sizing it up, circling it with their hands rubbing at their chins.  Mrs Naidu started backing into her house, saying “Goodbye Aggie, I shall be seeing you later.  I am having to be getting my breyani on” and I tell you, Flo, as hard as this is to believe she shut the door in my face.

It took them two days to take that tree down Flo.  Two heartbreaking days I watched them chop it up.  Mrs Naidu’s house is always dark anyway,  all electricity seems to be used to run that bloody great stove (excuse my language Flo, but I was really upset) and their flat screen laser beam tv but for the next week their house was even darker.

Anyway she would not open the door to my incessant knocking, I nearly took the chainsaw and opened the door myself.  I spoke to the driver of the truck and he said that he thought that Mrs Naidu was under the impression that “undesirable elements” could hide behind the tree and hold Mr Naidu to ransom before the electric gate could shut safely behind him. 

But you know these things always come back to haunt you.  You don’t just chop down a beautiful piece of God’s work and get away with it.  And I am not for one minute saying that I am pleased about this.  Flo, not one smile crossed my lips when some burglars hopped over their back fence and broke into their house.  They were not in, thank goodness.  But I got back from Mrs Louw’s up the road and there were police and about 20 security firms milling around.  I now see they have TWO different security firms ensuring the safety of their goods, all promising quick fast armed-response.  There will be a shoot-out there Flo.  You mark my words.

Julius Malema after he was nominated in the Drama Queen Category of the gay community organised Feather Awards, alongside a socialite and record company boss:

“My knowledge is in politics.  I have no problem with anyone gay or straight, but I refuse to be named a queen.  I am not a drama queen.  I am straight.

Weekend Witness 17 October 2009

“An advertising feature in yesterday’s Witness erred in wishing Muslim advertisers a happy Diwali.  The wishes were of course intended for Hindu advertisers.  We apologise for any hurt and embarrassment caused.”

I was lucky enough to have a Xhosa woman in my life from the time I was born.  Her word was law and if you did not listen, well then your backside got slapped with loud applause from my parents.  So as a child, “apartheid” was a word that didn’t really touch me.

As I got older obviously I could no longer take this blinkered view of the world but I still cocooned myself in my “I treat everyone I meet with respect”.  I do not campaign for anything.  I am just not a natural-born campaigner.  I have never carried signs decrying something or other while marching down a street and chucking dustbins all over the place.  Always thought that was rather crass actually (look, a lot of this is tongue in cheek, okay.  Untangle your knickers and pull them back up, you look like an idiot).

I know of many South Africans who have lived here and left before Nelson Mandela walked out of gaol and changed the face of our country forever.   I also know of many who have left since.  Furthermore there are the people who were born in other countries and have lived here for years and years and have decided to go back to where they came from.  I have known people stay for six months, take a good look around and decide “not for me”.

All these people have something in common:  they have all lived in South Africa.  They can make an informed decision.  They are entitled to live where they would like to.  And they are entitled to their opinion of South Africa.  To the ones who lost loved ones to violence, I find myself putting my life on hold for just a few minutes and paying tribute to that slain person.

My bloody, buggering rage is at the people who have never been here, who felt compelled to make decisions concerning the laws of the land leading up to the first democratic election  They jumped up and down in righteous indignation, knowing that nearly 98% of the population is black and so the outcome was pretty obvious and did not require 20/20 vision to see what was happening in the rest of Africa, particularly Zimbabwe from which they firmly turn their faces so they need not look at it.

And now we come to the problematic part for me.  These same people are now wondering if it is safe for them to come to South Africa for the 2010 World Cup.  I don’t care about the World Cup, I couldn’t care if another soccer game was ever played in the world anywhere; but it is the principle of the thing.

I have been informed that little talks on how to behave during the world cup have been broadcast on local radio stations.  I have never heard one but … I assume this would go along the lines of “don’t pee in the petunias and no greenies please in the gutters”.  Apparently this is the first time it has been necessary to issue guidelines on acceptable behaviour.  South Africa is the first country to have found it imperative to tell its people how to behave.  All I can say to that is maybe they should have done so in England … and Germany … and Portugal … and Spain … and Holland … 

At least have the courage of your convictions when you so vehemently opposed racialism back in the day.  Because that is all this is.  It is racialism.

Heard Mrs Ackerman has a painful cookie and has had it for 3 weeks now. She has put loads of stuff on it and has been going round the neighbourhood knocking on all the doors and asking the wives if they had a remedy. If some poor unsuspecting man had the bad luck to answer the door, she has been seen glaring at him and saying “Nothing to do with you, young man, absolutely nothing!” She says this before they have had a chance to say “hello” or anything and she keeps to the ‘young man’ even though some of them are 78 with their teeth out. I believe it is a huge problem … she has tried yoghurt, bicarb, egg white (does she beat it stiff I have to wonder), cookie cream and today I heard her say “if you can’t kill it, burn it out” and so she put TCP on it. She spent 25 minutes hopping up and down the passage and yelping, the dogs thought this was a wonderful game and joined in until she gave one a gentle nudge into the cupboard. She then had to get into a warm bath because she reeked of the stuff. Have you smelt TCP … worst smell in the world! She has been to the doc and has been given tabs for it, drank bucket-loads of citro-soda, and cranberry juice. She then had the gall (or sheer guts) to stand in front of the congregation in church and asked if any of the women there had a solution. The cranberry argument was raised again and then she was told by one of the oldest male parishioners that if she added a bit of flour and sugar she should be able to lay a biscuit.