Gratitude and #TBDZA #CTAngels

Kids. I don’t have any of my own, yet. But they are a rare and fortunate treasure. We try to protect them, whether they’re ours or not, in any way possible. There are laws that say we must and special days dedicated to remembering how precious they are. These are broad strokes. Broad because it’s difficult to scoop up the thousands that need protecting into your arms all at once and fulfil all their needs.

Today I met kids who slipped through someone’s fingers. Kids who need such basic things but greet you with a more sincere smile than those who, I know, have everything. The Twitter Blanket Drive, Tippy Toes and The Shoebox Operation invited me along to hand donated blankies to the cutest munchkins I’d met in a while. they enthusiastically huddled and cuddled their furry companions and munched on oranges and then floated away to life as usual.

When we were done, I got home, caught a movie with hubby and then had a hot shower to defrost from the day.

That’s when it hit me. I have a shower. With hot running water. The longer I stood under it, the more the guilt overwhelmed me. Three taps. That was all an entire community in Melkbos has. Three outdoor taps that spout cold water into drums. Stepping out of the shower onto the warm floor was when I cracked. Warm floor. We’ve all berated Eskom for leaving us in the dark for a few hours. What would you do if electricity wasn’t an option? Camping in “the bush” and “roughing it” for fun is the most many of us can do. If that. Three taps out back would make most people I know, cringe.

There will be no promise from me to not complain when my luxuries are disturbed because I know I will slip. What I will do, is keep reminding myself how fortunate I am by forcing myself to see the reality that lies only a few kilometers from my door, by helping at every opportunity.

I can only hope those of you reading this will watch the social networks for opportunities to help out and give back. It makes little people smile.

You’re unique… Just like me.

There are so many things I have to carefully articulate because as a journalist, you wouldn’t like me much if I spoke in colourful profanity. Unfortunately, my oral vocabulary is expansive and multi-lingual enough to make sailors wonder if they’ve navigated into the Twilight Zone.

Similarly, as a journalist, I’ve been trained and practice daily, to be objective. And I try, oh how I try… But, as I break grammar and punctuation rules here, I sometimes break the rules and have an internalised opinion. Heaven forbid of course, that I have an opinion that includes some choice language. I have to concede, it often does. The ears it falls upon are those who are either forged to me by blood, or wedding band. I’m going to share some with you though, and hope spell check auto corrects words into “fudge” and “blasteds” and so forth.

I started this blog writing endeavour when I moved cities. Bright-eyed and full of hope, I had champagne dreams about stories involving a mountain, some sort of beach activity, ventures into vineyards and smiley, shiny, happy people. Needless to say, I’ve been slacking. It’s not because I’m busy because I’ve read books, baked, decorated and even pedicured… All of which take 300 times longer than it takes me to type words. It’s because there’s nothing to tell.

Moving sounded like a bunch of fun. Living, not so much. I still have to wake up when it’s cold enough to shatter my lungs if I breathe, drive, work, cook and pass out. Hmm. Not exactly what I envisioned. Then again, I envisioned something that is a fallacy. Nowhere is perfect.

Cities are exactly like people. If it’s pretty, it’s not bright. If it’s rough around the edges, with a glint in it’s eye, it’s smart and sexy. If it’s cool, easy and sunny, it’s a surfer. I don’t have to go further. You’ve already guessed which is which.

People, as you know, are unique. As unique as the next person. But the belief that one is better than the next, has sparked fury and outrage and marches. No matter where one goes within our borders, it’s us and them. The Queen’s Jubilee got me thinking. Nay, a comment about being grateful that the Queen blessed us with the language of English, got me thinking…

So if the English hadn’t come by, would we be Portuguese-speaking? Or would it be Dutch? Or if the boats never came around, would we even be a separate republic? Because, when someone drew the lines on the map to make countries, that was to designate ownership. Can you imagine it? Us and Lesotho and Zimbabwe and Namibia all one clump. And when would we all have met one another? Or would the world still be one huge Group Areas Act?

These thoughts are where my brain goes when I think about the trivialised realities of the things we argue about. Your city is no better than the next city, any more than my kind of human is better than your kind. I am by no means saying that we should forget the history that led us here but if you look down on me for where I come from, or who I am, you’d better be so enlightened that you’re floating above my head and actually farting perfume.

One day, upon self-destruction, because we were dead set on proving our differences by proving we’re not different, the meaning of life will indeed be 42.

A few words on words

My family has always reminded me that the words I speak are let loose into the universe. No action without a reaction and so forth…

A few weeks ago, I read a tweet that gave me chills. Something along the lines of “you won’t understand until your child is killed”. Maybe my maternal instinct kicked in a little strongly but I judged the person harshly for the statement. You simply shouldn’t wish ill on a child, in any way.

Today proved it wasn’t maternal, or sensitivity or any such matter. Saw an argument over a similar statement, this time relating to rape. In my mind, to say, “you won’t understand until it happens to you” is tantamount to “I’ll point and laugh when it does”. That’s no way to prove a point.

The only point I see is your focussed anger and a need for revenge.

Manure and fans of the poo

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I know I loved football when Argentina (the team in pretty blue) won the World Cup because I closed my eyes and prayed and it worked. Being an adult crushed that fantasy but I still pray. Then… Sometimes… Along comes … Continue reading →

Your song… RIP Heavy D

You know how there are some songs you can’t hear without associating them to specific people, or times in your life?

When I said to hubby, “Heavy D has died”, he didn’t ask who he was, he asked “how?” Heavy D was an era in the lives of all of us 80s babies. When Heavy D & The Boys sang Now That We Found Love, I had no concept of what they were on about, but I did want to strut around my lounge like a back-up dancer and use a comb abuse my hair until it teased. Real name Dwight Arrington Myers, the 44-year-old Jamaican-born rapper and actor will be remembered as being part of the Rat Pack of an enviable genre, keeping company with Biggy Smalls, Snoop, P Diddy and Tupac. Sad as it is to say goodbye, he has left a legacy. Music memory is an iron clad storyteller for humankind. Investigations continue, but the singer’s death has reportedly been linked to respiratory problems.

Speaking of memories, two of my closest friends have songs of their own. Mini has Pink’s Get The Party Started and Kashy’s is Walking on Sunshine. I hear them and immediately smile, remembering high school and crazy holidays to Cape Town and feeling all grown up. The irony does not escape me.

I’ve found that just about everyone in my line of sight has some kind of theme song. Recently, it seems, our politicians and public figure have jumped on the jukebox in my head too. Julius Malema and Shoot the Boer, Bheki Cele and Stomach In, Chest Out (sung to me by two very enthusiastic police officers from the roof of their van, with actions, on my 30th birthday), President Jacob Zuma and Mshini Wam of course, and a recent addition to my memory bank is Helen Zille and The Ghostbusters Theme.

So the people in my life can be brought down to a playlist, which I shall have to document after writing this. I’d like it to be played when I breathe my last breath. Morbid I know but I often think about how I will be remembered. What songs will they play to remember me? I might pull a poltergeist and yank their hair if it’s Michael Bolton.

If you had the choice to pick a song to represent you, what would it be?

P.S. These are my 80s top tunes

Chesney Hawkes – One and Only

Rick Astley – Never Gonna Give You Up

Tiffany – I Think We’re Alone Now

Airwolf

MacGyver

Smurfs

Ex’puce me? That doesn’t suit you…

In a Fashion Police TV promo, currently on the E! Entertainment Channel, Joan Rivers shouts at multi-lingual Diane Kruger’s purple dress: “No, nein, nich, no!” This is encouragingly close to what I’ve shouted at the Sunday papers this past week. More accurately, at the creative masterpiece that is Julius Malema’s finery. More haibo than ayoba, I want to shout in all our languages, “nee man, voetsek, suga wena, eish, yoh yoh yoh…” Meanwhile, I’m convinced that I’ve seen this suit before. It wasn’t a nightmare after eating too much cheese, it is an actual character. But which one? It’s not “The Terror that Flaps in the Night” Darkwing Duck or The Joker from Batman (thanks Lance).

The traditional colour of a bruise adorns men, and imaginary men everywhere. A common personality trait seems to be a slight anger problem, whereby the wear transforms into a scary guy with ill-intent. I’ve gathered them together, in a conference of puce, to compare and ponder…

P.S. For Darkwing Duck fans… I found some of his most deluded hero utterances, courtesy of HumorDistrict.com

I am the termite that devours your floorboards
I am the raspberry seed you can’t floss out
I am the itch you cannot reach
I am the hairball that clogs your drains
I am the smoke that smokes Smoked Oysters
I am the ten dollar service charge on all returned checks
and the all time best: “I am the low ratings that cancel your program”

Find more here: http://humordistrict.com/2010/01/15/top-5-reasons-darkwing-duck-is-the-greatest-hero-ever/

Hear ye! Hear ye! You speak funny…

I love to fly. The ‘giant tin can with wings floating in the billowy clouds’ trick never gets old. Taking off especially, results in hapless grinning.  My tummy sticks to my spine, my eardrums do a snap, crackle, pop, and my face is stretched into half a G-force, half mad adrenaline-induced silent scream. Also, most fortuitously, flying allows me the opportunity to relish in people watching. The barrage of parents who fly with screeching children who seem unaware that simply plugging them shut with a pacifier would solve the problem. The business people who juggle gadgets like circus freaks while they try to look comfortable in crumpled pencil skirts and pin-striped suits. Such a shame all their professionalism is swiftly executed by the airport announcer with all the finesse of a lumberjack drinking out of a porcelain teacup.

Her bad mood is evident. In the very distinct tone of a mother taking a slipper to a two-year-old’s bottom, she scolds passengers for not being at their gate, near their gate, and for not having the power to instantly teleport themselves into their seats so as not to delay the flight. With plenty of naming and shaming afoot, I said a quick prayer for passengers Scot, Nxakula and Peters well, because they’re in for some sharp stares and maybe even a swift knitting needle to the knuckles from flight staff, for being inconsiderate and “holding up the flight”.

The lady who didn’t quite get it all that morning was soon interrupted by a softly spoken young man who had some instructions minus the condescension. “Will passengers seated on rows 16 to 32 please queue to the right,”. “On”? Lad, I think you mean “in”. People don’t perch like birds on seat backs.

If you can’t tell by now that the quality of service is important to me, then I’m awful at complaining. Did you know, that the people you hear yelling through the public announcement system are the people behind the counters you buy tickets at? Yes, it’s true. I was, for a long time, I’ve been under the illusion that there are dedicated announcers who sit in a tiny office, surrounded by computer screens and sitting on a brown wooden desk, a huge microphone ala Larry King. But alas, this is not so. The quaint desk and air traffic controller combo of my over-active imagination is just that, over-imagined. Reality check: at the corner of the various cubicles housing airline ticket sellers is a black bendy microphone which the on-duty supervisor grabs and shouts into. This mind you, could be any array of people who remain unacquainted with grammar.

Fair enough, we don’t pay directly for the service, but given our growing tourist industry, should we not object to people with PMS, English as a 16^th language and people who screech like hadedas addressing the public? If it’s important enough to include Travel and Tourism as a subject in the school curriculum, then it should be important enough to get it right.

I am Bhawna. Nice to meet you :)

It’s no secret that I have a penchant for noticing the absurd. While bleaching the laces on my trainers, I noticed the label on the bottle of Domestos. “Thicker than ever”. I’d like to do with that label what the lovely girl in the Debonairs “like” advert does with her little stickers, to people who abuse they’re, there and their. While many can fuzz over the details in the spoken word, with social networking and instant messaging becoming more popular than ever, I’ve found that the proof of the pudding is in the typing.

Writing they say, is an art. By this same token, language must be the music. I don’t pretend to be a master of either, but rather a connoisseur. While I understand that one can never know everything about a language, since it is ever evolving, for Pete’s sake, try at least. For instance, mum, who studied languages would, does every-so-often share a gem. The Zulu rule for instance: isiZulu does not have a “k”. Should you be confronted with one, treat it as a “g”. “Bheki” is now amongst my favourite words to say. My name is another one. Hindi does not have a “v”. So, like my grandfather used to shout, and my friend and former colleague Thabiso Thema rightly say, I am Bhawna. Nice to meet you

These are quirks that one can teach and learn. But you have to want to know. I try my best to ask about every name I can’t get my head around. Eastern Bloc tennis players are the bane of my existence. The wonderful people in the control room try their best to help with the more confusing ones, but after saying Hoooos-ney-whatcha-miz-a-acchi enough times, even they can’t help me anymore in-between fits of hysterical laughter. Those who are paid to speak for a living will tell you stories of what their Achilles heel is. And we all have them. ”Preliminary” is a tough one for most of us, so we try our best to avoid it. A colleague has issues with “Wednesday”, and I’ve previously said “Hillaly Clinton”. It really is a FML moment in your head while you try, in the milliseconds that follow, to re-direct your face to “you didn’t hear that” mode.

It really is a good idea to mind your p’s and q’s, no matter your job or age. Bad habits are passed on.

RIP space shoes

It’s been a tough week, but I’ve finally found a curtain person and I’m blatantly ignoring Arsene Wenger until I feel less like smacking him with a brick. I’ve watched the ANCYL’s technique carefully, and I think I could really do it.

To keep distracted, I’ve been watching the Gaddafi show and pondering his female bodyguards. I do not understand a man who uses women as his protectors and still bans Woman’s Day. Also, looking at the pictures, and drawing form journalist colleagues who have visited the country, how does he “allow” these woman to whip their hair back and forth? His “Amazonian Guard” have also made allegations of rape and abuse. I wonder if any of these will hold weight if he is ever recaptured.

No matter our appearance, women are tough nuts. We can and do endure hurt but can also melt like candyfloss. It’s difficult presenting a hard exterior and still remaining soft at heart. I feel for these women. I also admire them deeply. Beautiful creatures they are. Made-up and naturally poised, they are what we all aspire to be sometimes: GI Jane… in killer heels.Which brings me to my sad of the week.

Christian Louboutin, Manolo Blahnick and Jimmy Choo have built empires on the meticulous design of wildly expensive footwear, so I’m not alone in my often irrational affection. This past week I discovered that an entire box of my precious babies have gone AWOL. A lesson in moving… keep an eye on everything, all the time.

The more I think about it though, it was a large box of shoes that the people I love, loathed. When I first saw the patent gold glint of the Aldo pumps, I thought “have to have those to wear to somewhere, some day”. I’m Indian, so gold shoes are always useful to wear to someone’s wedding at some point. But the first time I tried, I was met with “you are not wearing those space shoes!” from my mum. She still warns me against wearing them, so she will be glad to hear they’re on some other astronaut now.

It is not the first time I’ve heard the “space shoes” line. There were matching pairs of Baby Phat trainers in that box too. Gold and silver. They brought hours of eyebrow raises from my colleagues at eNews. Only Savo, one of the sports journalists understood their inherent awesomeness. Savo, who dons car-guard orange track pants to work. But there’s always one, right?

I am not sorry to have seen the back of my Green Cross health sandals, bought during a phase of health awareness. They were hard on my little feet and ugly as sin. This is where art has been thrown aside for functionality. The same can be said for Crocs. (Please don’t ask why shoes with holes need fur. I don’t know.) Case closed.

When all is said and done, maybe it was all the negative energy around the shoes in that box. Still, I loved them all and I will miss them. In tribute, a stellar pair, purchased with my 10% Aldo voucher is in order. It will restore my sanity.

Curtain up Arsenal

I’ve been ragged on by many of you for not writing in a while. One of you even shouted… you know who you are. I apologise, it’s been a tad busy. It’s week two in the new house and I’m losing my nut. The current wait for curtain quotes is turning into a saga and I’m suddenly not opposed to “buy it in a box” drapes. I’ve taken to pretending that eating is solving my problems but the sugar content only makes me more alert to the incessant malaise. I’m going to call it the “Cape Malaise”. In discussing with a friend, I found that I wasn’t imagining it. Everything does take three weeks and when businesses do call you back, it really is as if they don’t want to. Thankfully I have been distracted.

The English football season has kicked off. As a Gunner, I do not envisage the glint and sparkle of trophies in my future, but the hand-holding and support us Arsenal fans provide one another throughout the season is unmatched. We hope together, sigh together and sulk together.Some may still be damp-eyed at the departure of Cesc Fabregas, but I’m looking past his departure and wish him well at Barcelona. He served Arsenal with great dignity. Fare thee well gorgeous one. By the same token, if anybody can explain where Alex Song’s dignity has disappeared to, I’d love to know. What is up with his mohawk? Not that it’s an improvement on any of the previous dos. You be the judge.