A Broad Abroad

Mother of two

2008-11-22T17:58:00.003Z

It's been a while. Sorry.

But I think we're over the hump now. The Good Man vanished on a business trip to Athens two weeks after Thumper's arrival, which coincided perfectly with my baby blues meltdown. Fortunately, the fine ladies of Virginia nursed me back to fine spirits and I have been truly enjoying my littlest bundle. As fortune would have it, so is her big sister. I was worried that Bambi might get jealous of the redirection of attention and plot cunning methods to take it out on her sister. But no. Her frustrations have been more accurately directed at me. And I agree with her. Nursing a newborn takes too damn long.

Another big event while the Good Man was away was Halloween. Whoever thought of combining the joint pleasures of dressing up and getting loads of candy was clearly a marketing genius. It's all great fun but wow! can it all add up. Gravestones in the flower beds, ghosts hanging from the trees, outfits from Disney store and, of course, large volumes of candy ('cos who wants to be the sap who runs out...?) and the monthly budget is flattened. Given my postpartum state I got away with minimal decor - one plastic Jack-o-lantern and a pumpkin decorated with stickers and mauled by the neighbourhood squirrels. Sad, but true...

And I couldn't quite face trick or treating with Bambi which turned into a complete bonus for her as she scored two invites out with other families - one early and one late - and, therefore, scored twice the candy. We've been trickle feeding her the spoils and still have a few mini packs of M&Ms to go. She dressed as Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty to those who have not been immersed in Disney Princess) and looked gorgeous as can be seen from the picture above.

And then came her birthday. Yes, I can hardly believe it myself, but Bambi is four! So we rolled out the princess outfit again (with the cost of the thing I had considered sending her to school in it too - but the weather had turned...) and invited 20 under fives around for two hours. To ease the pressure on ourselves we hired an entertainer - known as The Great Zucchini officially, and the Magnificent Marrow in our house - to officiate. Best exorbitant sum ever spent in my book. He had them roaring with laughter and completely happy for over an hour, after which we fed 'em, sugared 'em and shipped 'em home for their parents to deal with. He he he!

Thumper slept through the whole thing, which means she could probably sleep through a Stones concert or a major tornado. Or both. Simultaneously. Good to know!

Thumper...

2008-10-21T19:46:00.002Z

is here! All 9 pounds of her (4.1kg for those metrically minded).

She is doing well, feeding voraciously and, in my completely unbiased opinion, absolutely gorgeous. Bambi can barely contain her excitement - the Good Man has held his littlest princess less often than his big princess has. We're wondering if the novelty will wear off...

Anyway, must get on with my endless cycle of feeding, nappy changes and naps.

Pregnant Pause

2008-10-13T14:06:00.008Z

It looks like Thumper will arrive on schedule. But the build up has just seemed like a long wait - in a very dull waiting room. This is what is meant by a pregnant pause - everything on hold...waiting. So here are some random thoughts I've had while on pause:

Men and women respond very differently to a full term pregnant belly. Women smile as if sharing a secret. Men tend to show you the whites of their eyes...

The Good Man has to have the worst timing in the world. Toothache presented at three o'clock on Sunday morning... when all dental practices in the greater Virginia area were closed... until today. The cynic in me wonders if this is fatherly pre-baby attention seeking. But actually losing a tooth seems like overkill.

Autumn is my favourite season here so far. But then Summer was ridiculously hot and humid and autumn is cool and ridiculously beautiful. So I'm thinking maybe I'm just holding onto my sanity. And I have yet to experience Winter and Spring so further research will be required.

And on the theme of lists, Reluctant Memsahib, who is currently very concerned about her sanity has tagged me. The idea is to answer questions with seven word answers. While my brain is currently mud, it appears I can still count to seven so here goes:

1. Where were you ten years ago?

On a mountain top in South Africa.

2. What's on your to-do list today?

Currently attempting to not go into labour.

3. What if you were a billionaire?

In this economy? I'd be an exhibit!

4. Five places you have lived?

Hermanus, Germany, Zambia, Scotland, Kenya (and others)

5. Three bad habits?

Grumpy, bossy and emotional. I AM PREGNANT!

6. Snacks you like?

No room left for snacks inside me...

7. Who are you tagging?

La Pagina Portena who needs a job

Mom/Mum who may already have done this

Safari Stories whose last post made me laugh...

So, tomorrow's the big day. I'll let you know how it all goes. In the fullness of time...

American WIldlife

2008-10-04T22:57:00.005Z

Just as I was about to take Bambi to bed, the phone rang. Our neighbours had been having raccoon trouble and had managed to trap the little critter in their garage. Would we like to come over for a quick look and help release it? Oh yes! Off we went with Bambi yodeling the theme tune to Go Diego Go.

And a cutie it was too. Clearly having a bad day though, tucked into the corner of its cage. And then its day got worse. Out of absolutely nowhere, a storm was brewing and as we drove our little bandit to its new home the lightening struck. Close. Very close. And the thunder rolled. Loudly. Very loudly.

Oh, and the heavens opened.

Unsurprisingly, one very wet raccoon decided to forgo all pleasantries and bolted for the bushes the second of its release. Fair enough.

And then I realised where we were - in a park some 500m from Bambi's school. The suburbs of northern Virginia are peppered with parks and it struck me that there must be quite a raccoon rotation going on with masked crusaders being passed around from neighbourhood to neighbourhood as they get caught raiding and released to discover menus anew somewhere else.

So that was my first real brush with American wildlife. Although did you know that you get black squirrels in this part of the world?!

And I'm still pregnant by the way...

Settling in for a wait

2008-09-28T17:26:00.003Z

So another week down. Two and a bit to go and I'll be a mother of two. Can't pretend I'm not alternating between excitement and blind terror but as ankles swell and discomfort increases, the former is winning out. Bring on three hourly feeds, just let me lose the waddle!

Exciting news of the week is that our freight arrived. In tact. Which is always good. Of course, we have now gone from rattling around in an empty house to having stuff. Clutter, one might say.

My portly state had the distinct upside of exempting me from unpacking. This was a first. The Good Man has a long and illustrious history of arranging business trips to coincide with the arrival of our goods. This time he took the day off and did the heavy lifting while I conducted from the couch. It was lovely. But a never-to-be-repeated performance, I fear. Anyway, I didn't go into labour which seems to have made it worthwhile.

In fact, the Good Man has been very good of late. He took Bambi to get her Halloween outfit yesterday - a pink, sparkly confection, complete with tiara and satin basket - and then spent the rest of the day in front of the football to reassert his manliness. And right now he's at Disney on Ice with his princess. Heaven only knows how much sport that will take to sort out.

Oh well, we continue to wait for Thumper. Will keep you posted...

Up to date

2008-09-20T20:19:00.002Z

Frankly, I've had enough of all this retrospective. I think I had in mind that I could update friends and family through my blog. But blogging (at least for me) isn't about travel tales and catching up - it's about pithy observation and social commentary. So my plan now is to provide a very potted version of our introduction to the US of A:

We now live in Virginia, but close enough to downtown DC that the Good Man cycles to work. The neighbourhood is leafy and the the neighbours have been extremely welcoming and helpful. I suspect we may be wallowing in suburban bliss...

Light switches work differently here. Up means on and down means off. Why? No idea.

Bambi has had her first encounter with a toilet flushing sensor (flushes when you move in front of the sensor, ie. stand up). It gave her one hell of a fright and now I can't persuade her to go to the toilet in public places - but she's become very disciplined about going before we leave the house.

Washington is far more beautiful than I ever imagined. Weekend activities so far have included Wolf Trap, boat trips on the Potomac, the Kennedy Centre open day (with Dan Zanes - oh so cool) and the Good Man regularly takes Bambi canoeing at Fletcher's Cove. I had never thought that the nation's capital would be so outdoor orientated.

Breakfast cereal without sugar is ridiculously hard to find in the supermarket. I eventually tracked down Weetabix - only available in the health food aisle.

This is an election year (fast approaching election month) and American politics and electioneering are absolutely unbelievable. But I'm sure I will be writing more about this later. At this stage I'm actually quite glad I do not have any right to vote here.

Our freight has yet to arrive. Bambi, however, has decorated our lounge with empty boxes which she has decorated with dayglo paint... and glitter. It's a look unlikely to catch on in Home & Garden and one of which we will undoubtedly be reminded for the remainder of our time here as we continue to brush sparkles from between the floorboards. But it is cheerful.

I am due to deliver Thumper via c-section on 14th October. This is not because, with 3 and a half weeks to go she is already estimated to weigh nearly 8 pounds (help!), but medically advised after an emergency c-section after a complicated (and long) labour with Bambi. Wish me luck. If I go into labour before then, we're in trouble - no support network means relying heavily on planning. Labour is not part of the plan...

In all, this has been one of our easier moves. I suspect we'll be happy here. And I'll keep you posted.

In transit

2008-09-07T16:04:00.007Z

And because we never do things the simple way, the good family made a stop off. For a week. In Vienna.

Vienna is gorgeous and, at most times in my life, the perfect place to spend a week. Music! Art! I even speak the language. So, the food's a bit heavy but even Bambi was able to navigate the menus and by the end of our stay had perfected her pronunciation of 'wurst mit pommes, bitte'.

Austria is now known as the Land of Sausage.

But... We did not have a car and, even with a really brilliant metro system, the amount of walking to get around was not great for my six month pregnant frame... or Bambi's three year old legs.

As recent postings have largely read like travel rags, we'll skip over the lowdown on the Prater, the House of Music, Stefansdom, horse drawn carriages and Danube cruises and go straight to Bambi's undisputed highlight... Schonbrunn Palace.

The Palace itself is big and imposing and can be toured. But what three year old wants to spend two hours looking at furniture. That said, the grounds are spectacular with loads of room to run. Here's Bambi running around the Gloriette...

And before you think I denied my princess any access to the palace, we did go to the children's museum. What a find! She got to play with period toys, braid period wigs and see how Imperial children lived. And, the biggie - she got to dress up. How cute is this....

And on the 5th of July (yes, we missed the 4th) we officially moved to the States.

The exit strategy

2008-08-31T13:49:00.004Z

When preparing to leave a country a sense of urgency kicks in. We always arrive in new places with grandious ideas about the wonderful places we will visit and the places we will explore. We always anticipate years in which to make these acquaintances and feel comforted by the time we can take to acquire 'local' knowledge.

Now, faced with ten weeks before departure, we embraced our inner tourists and simply started making bookings.

The trouble around the December election had largely calmed (if not completely resolved). And there remained parts of the country that we preferred to avoid... just in case. Fortunately we had snuck in a trip to Lake Nakuru in October and had our chance to marvel at, literally, millions of flamingoes. Post election, Nakuru became the centre of much of the political violence as IDPs (Internally Displaced People) moved into the area and became targets from rival tribes. I hasten to add that, by the time we left Kenya, Nakuru had calmed and anyone planning a holiday to Kenya now should definitely consider a trip up there on their itinerary.

But the place we had not explored, the big ticket, the must do before we leave, was the Masai Mara. Politically, this area had remained largely untouched by the election fallout. As the name would suggest, it is home to the Masai people who had not been involved in the conflict. It had, however, been hugely effected by a sharp drop in tourism. This was undoubtedly being felt by the local operators and their staff. Their strategy to keep some sort of occupancy level going was to discount sharply for local tourists. As residents, this included us. So, much to our surprise, instead of camping, we were able to stay in beautiful luxury tented camps. Twice!

The first time we went, the good Granny was with us for a visit. We stayed at the Karen Blixen camp in one of the concessions just outside the park proper. The highlight of the trip was finding two female lions with six cubs and watching them, on our own for the best part of an hour, yanking tails, chasing each other, climbing all over their mums. Too cute. Our guide mentioned to us that, had we visited a year earlier we would have probably been jostling for position with about twenty other vehicles. So, lucky in a way... although political conflict seems a rather high price to pay for a good game drive...

The second time we went we really stepped out and treated ourselves to a weekend at Little Governors (again at 'special' rates). This camp is known for a few very special things. First, it has been maintained as a real bush camp - no electricity, fences or mod cons. Although very comfortable and serving some of the best food in Kenya, it goes to some lengths to ensure that you never forget where you are. The second thing it is known for is its balloon safaris. Which were also running deep discounts.

Sadly, Bambi was considered too young, and I was considered too pregnant (discrimination I tell you!) to go on a flight but the Good Man took the gap. We followed behind in the chase vehicle and got to take part in the champagne breakfast (if not the champagne) at the end. I have never felt such envy in my life. Watching that graceful orb floating over the treetops while we bounced over the ever pitted ruts of the Mara was quite torturous. But Bambi and I have promised each other that, when she's old enough, our turn will come...

Our final excursion was on our very last weekend in Kenya. The Good Man had for many years been talking about taking part in the Lewa Downs Half Marathon. He had rallied a few friends, got himself into a team and our departure date was actually set so that he could take part before leaving. What makes this event pretty unique is that it is run through a fully fledged game park, well stocked with animals that can trample you, chase you and eat you for lunch. Or dinner. Fortunately it is also extremely well organised, with the route being steadily patrolled by rangers and helicopters to ensure the safety of the runners.

The organisers set up a temporary village for the weekend to accommodate runners and their families, complete with campsites and long drop loos. At five and a half months pregnant I was not feeling even this adventurous so booked us into Ol Pejeta House in the Sweetwaters conservancy where we shared a self contained house with another family whose dad was also running. The boys went to run their race while we visited a tame rhino and the chimp sanctuary, lit roaring log fires and generally absorbed the atmosphere and the stunning views of Mount Kenya. It was idyllic - good company, fantastic scenery and all too easy to forget what was looming ahead.

On the Sunday we drove back to Nairobi, picked up our luggage and left Africa... again.

Before we move on...

2008-08-23T21:32:00.017Z

some photos...

First Zanzibar, which Bambi clearly enjoyed:

but then it is a beautiful spot...

with cool things to do like feeding little tortoises....

and some bigger ones...

You can also listen to conch shells in stereo...

climb huge trees (with your Dad)...

and swim in mangrove swamps off the side of a boat!

And then there was Easter. Which included a good haul. Observe the Masai in the top right corner who sportingly kept the monkeys from stealing the eggs before the hunt. (This was in Amboseli by the way).

It's important to carefully survey the terrain when game watching.

Oh look! Kilimanjaro!

So I lied (3)

2008-08-17T14:42:00.004Z

So, where were we? Oh yes, big news in Nairobi...

The Good Man was shortlisted for not one but two fantastic jobs - both in a project he's been wanting to be involved with, both in organisations he admires and both , um, financially rewarding. The only hitch was that both would involve moving to Washington DC.

This is always the worst part of a transition - the possibility of change but not knowing for sure if a move is imminent or not. Also, never having been anywhere in the US, much less DC I was trying to overcome a few (mainly unfounded) fears. And did I mention the morning, noon and night sickness?

But then Easter rolled around, which happened to coincide with our tenth wedding anniversary. So we took a weekend off from the speculation and worrying (if not the constant nausea) and went to Amboseli. This game park has the advantage of being a pretty easy drive from Nairobi and stunningly located at the base of Kilimanjaro. And on this particular weekend it was overrun with Americans. Most from Washington DC. Ever had the feeling someone's trying to tell you something? Fantastic, warm, friendly people who sucked us into their celebrations and got Bambi completely wrapped up in what was undoubtedly the most over the top Easter egg hunt I have ever seen. Needless to say she loved it.

Fortunately, they were mainly with the US State Department and based in Nairobi so we were able to maintain contact after the bunny left town!

Soon after we got back, it was confirmed. An offer was in and we were scheduled to leave at the end of June...

So I lied...(2)

2008-08-06T18:53:00.003Z

I really must stop committing myself to time schedules for posts! But we digress...

By the end of February the uncertainty started to become a bit overwhelming. The Good Man was asked to participate in a conference in Zanzibar and we decided that a family break to a peaceful island sounded like a good plan. So off we went.

Zanzibar is a true tropical paradise. We spent our first week on the east coast which sports pristine beaches and some amazing snorkeling. It was all pretty rustic but comfortable and we loved it, spending long lazy days on the sand or by the pool. At some point during the week I looked up and considered the moon and stars. And then I contemplated lunar cycles. And then I considered my own lunar cycle. Which wasn't behaving very cyclically. One plastic stick later and it was confirmed... Bambi is to be a big sister. This actually explained a lot - my food aversions, my inability to deal with the heat and humidity (although, to be fair, it was roasting) and general grumpiness (which I had been attributing to stress).

Our second week was in Stone Town. What an amazing spot. If you have even the remotest interest in history, this city is a must. You won't find hundreds of clinical museums and memorials but you will be able to see the remains of early ocean trade, breathe in heavy waves of cinamon and nutmeg, watch dhows sailing along the coast as they have done for centuries and contemplate words like 'swashbuckling' and 'adventurer' without having to give yourself over to too much imagination.

The Good Man was working for much of this time but Bambi and I managed to keep ourselves busy. We went on a spice tour which basically involved a chap wandering around a small spice plantation with us in tow. That said, he carefully wove a grass reed hat for Bambi as he strolled and did manage to persuade some local youths to climb to some very precarious perches in an effort to show us all the fragrant treasures of his patch.

We also wiled away an afternoon at Mercury's - a very popular seaside bar named in honour of Zanzibar's most famous son - Freddie.

For our last day, with work commitments over, we decided to do the Blue Safari. The highlight of this trip (for me at any rate) was the snorkelling. The Good Man is not a strong swimmer and took off with the tide back to the sandbank powerless to fight the current. Lowering Bambi into middle of the ocean off the side of the dhow met with some resistance on her part (as I write this I do sense how foolish the idea was to start off with - but, hey, I'm pregnant). So my 'highlight' was nearly thwarted.

However, one of the guides, sensing my disappointment, said that if I was a strong enough swimmer to swim against the current from the sandbar he would take me out on my own. So we cruised back, deposited Bambi with her driftwood father and headed for the reef. What an incredible experience. Fish of every colour and shape, sea cucumbers, starfish, crabs and the big one - an octopus which, after some provocation it should be said, attached itself to the arm of my guide who rocketed to the surface and swung it around violently until, under its cloud of ink it retreated back to its rock. Suitably chastised, we retreated back to land and a sumptuous seafood barbeque. And Bambi proved an adept dolphin spotter as we sailed to the mainland.

Then it was time to head back to Nairobi where more big news awaited.

But more of that next time...

So I lied... (1)

2008-08-01T13:03:00.003Z

Next week came and went, and still no ADSL. And then I discovered that ADSL in Nairobi stands for Absolutely Damned Slow Line - rather like dial up but more expensive. And then there came the election...

Having become somewhat bewitched by the beauty of Kenya and rather caught up in the joy of our expatriate lifestyle, the election and resulting fallout came as a surprise of the worst kind. It shouldn't have. Having grown up in Africa (albeit further south), I should know that closely contested elections on this continent have a long history of resulting in contentious results and, all to often, violence.

Fortunately, the Good Man had not been as blinded as I and subtly arranged for us to be in Cape Town for Christmas, where we stayed until the dust settled in early January. Actually,the dust hadn't and probably still hasn't settled completely. But we felt that we were safe to go back.

However, Kenya had become a political hot potato and several aid donors, the Good Man's employers included, began speaking of revoking funding to Kenya in an attempt to pressure the government into a power sharing arrangement. After much negotiation, the influence of Kofi Annan and Condeleezza Rice, a power sharing agreement was reached. But by then the Good Man had felt that it would be prudent to look at other options rather than leaving his career to the whims of others. (At one time there was talk of moving him to Sudan - not a family friendly posting...)

This was an incredibly stressful time for the whole of Kenya and I can't help, in retrospect, thinking that my worries were so minor in comparison to those of so many others. All of our staff moved onto our property - they had been evicted from their homes for belonging to the 'wrong' tribal affliation. And they were considered the lucky ones - they had jobs and somewhere to go.

I volunteered at an IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camp and met many families who had been driven out of towns they had lived in for all of their lives, under threat of violence. Now they were living in Nairobi, jobless and homeless. The children in these camps were finding it impossible to find places in schools and you could feel their dreams diminishing with each day of learning under the tuition of underqualified 'teacher' volunteers, from decade old books, in the shade of tents.

Although a political resolution was found and calm achieved, the underlying differences between Kenyan ethnic groupings were brought to the surface and it will, undoubtedly, take a very long time for trust to be established.

Enough for one day. Much has happened to us since then and chapters are required. Tune in tomorrow for the next instalment...

Under Attack

2007-11-07T08:38:00.000Z

Well, I know that I've been a touch elusive but 42 comments looked too good to be true. And I was right. Them spammers have attacked. So I'll be adding one of those nasty little steps to the comment process where you enter a code word that makes no sense. A real test of commitment.
So where have we been? Well, the freight arrived. Finally. So I have been trying to get the house really set up. Our telephone line went dead the day we arrived. It took a week for me to persuade Telkom that the line really was dead and then, in desperation I found a technician up a ladder near my house and persuaded him to take a look. What do you know, the line was corroded and the whole thing took about fifteen minutes (and a few sparks) to sort out.

Now I am entering the quagmire that is ADSL. Why oh why does this have to take upwards of a week?? Not sure - something to do with paperwork which is still sitting with the clearing agents even though everything has been cleared and delivered. But even then they will need to do an assessment of the signal at our property, invoice us and receive payment before they will install. Oh joy!

So just to remind us why we came here, we took off for a weekend to Lake Nakuru. Bliss. Millions of flamingoes, hundreds of buffalo, gazelles, impala and seven lions outisde the park and worryingly close to our (tented) camp. Bambi was impressed.

In fact, Bambi is having a blast. She is turning nut brown and blonder by the day. She has her own vegetable garden - things grow so fast here that the process can even hold the attention of a three year old and her Swahili is getting quite impressive - I have been overtaken. And she gets to do cool stuff like feed giraffes. Observe:

She also seems to like our new house but then her garden has gone from a Scottish postage stamp to this:

I'll write again soon - in about a week.... when the ADSL gets installed.... hopefully...

Signed and sealed

2007-09-27T10:52:00.000Z

Huzzah! We have signed the lease. On Monday we will be moving into a beautiful home - 4 bedrooms, wooden floors throughout, gorgeous shady porch overlooking a gorgeous shady garden with a banana grove and two avocado trees... the cynic in me suspects that the plumbing and electrics must be shocking, so good is the place.

The whole process has been lengthy and tedious. There is a tendency in Africa towards the bureaucratic, which can be solved by palm greasing. But, good people that we are, this is not an option for us. So many things cost more and take longer. Anyway, we're there now.

Up next is the process of furnishing the place. This is exciting. In Kenya, custom made furniture is cheap - it's the store bought stuff that costs a packet. Of course 'custom made' doesn't mean 'artisan quality'. The process involves carefully examining a wide range of items usually on the side of a surburban road, dodging potholes and the odd goat, to find a carpenter whose work meets with your approval and then negotiating hard over design, delivery date and, of course, price. We should have our first delivery on Monday - can't wait.

Our freight has made it to Mombasa so far which is heartening. Alas, there is a botteleneck at the port and we will still have to wait a few weeks for delivery. But we're getting there...

A Broad Abroad

2007-09-19T06:46:00.000Z

Time for a name change.

This blog is no longer Scottish and the vistas I have more recently been admiring are not of snow capped peaks across wind swept lochs. Although the visual banner may have to wait until I get more organised - wouldn't want to shock you with too much change all at once!

I asked for suggestions for a new name and the definite winner was Stay at Home Dad who came up with two gems:
Ken ya Kenya - which is so clever that I fear those without Scottish (or, interestingly, South African) connections may not get it; and
A Broad Abroad, which it is to be as, being a title which packs well, means I will never have to worry about renaming again.

Asante sana, SAHD!

Life here is going well. Our temporary landlady has taken it upon herself to show me around Nairobi. Yesterday was spent visiting an Indian vegetable market (so brilliant I cannot begin to explain), a roadside furniture market where you can get a full six seater mahogany dining room table and chairs for under $300 (negotiable - everything is negotiable) and a Pakistani butcher (UK Health and Safety would have had a field day there!).

We also may have found a house. But until the lease is signed I will not say more for fear of jinxing it. Suffice to say, if all goes well, I will be a very happy, good woman. With a guest room. And no furniture...

Thank so much for all the comments on my last post. I really look forward to a broadband connection so that I can catch up on your news too soon.

Safe as houses

2007-09-11T07:58:00.000Z

We're here! And its been quite a ride. In the past month I have walked the ancient ruins of Scara Brae in Orkney, shopped in the souks of Abu Dhabi and Dubai and hand fed a Rothschilds Giraffe. As has Bambi. If she ever tells me her life is dull, I'll just remind her of August 2007.

Now begins the next stage - finding a home and getting settled. Fortunately, we've landed on our feet and found a lovely two bedroomed cottage on a lake as an interim let. It means that we're not in a big hurry to find something right away and can wait to find something right for us. So far, most houses I've looked at have been monumental - full of glass, marble and fake gold or really quite frightening with bathrooms that would leave me uncertain as to my ability to actually get clean in them.

In general, my first impressions of Nairobi are really good - it is beautiful, lush and the locals seem very friendly and helpful. Driving is, um, creative - especially on the routes through the city so we are scouring maps to find backroad routes. But Nairobi seems to have an oversupply of rivers and an undersupply of bridges - nowhere is to be reached as the crow flies.

Shopping here is a doddle compared to Lusaka - everything is available and very reasonable too. I'm hoping to slip in a trip to the Indian market later this week - I hear the fruit and veg are amazing.

We've found a lovely Montessori school for Bambi, which we're trying for a week to see how she goes. Judging by this morning, she'll have no trouble - anything to get out of traipsing around more houses with me!

And I've found an internet cafe - which should allow for the odd, irregular posting until our freight arrives...

We have a problem. Please be patient.

2007-08-08T13:17:00.000Z

Dear Reader

I haven't mentioned this before, largely I think, because I'm in denial.

Tomorrow the packers come. They will wrap up our worldly possessions - including my trusty desktop - load them into a container, ship the container to Nairobi via Mombasa. Once in Nairobi our container will be opened and our goods will pass through a customs process which seems to be a bit, um, fluid. We will be leaving Scotland in early September. And then we'll all be happily reconciled at the other end. At least that's the plan.

It is possible that we will emerge from this process a little lighter in wallet and, indeed, in load. But that we will survive. The far greater question is how I will survive the next +- 6 weeks without Skype, email or (sob!) Blogger?

So dear online friends, I apologise for not being able to visit your blogs or publish posts of our final adventures in Scotland over the next several weeks. I will miss this part of my day more than you know.

See you in October.

The Good Woman

PS Any suggestions as to a new name for this blog are welcome!

Outfoxed...

2007-08-06T21:44:00.000Z

Bambi: For my birthday I want Iggle Piggle, a Dora computer, a house, my Grannies, a cake, candles, a party, a bicycle. And a swimming pool.

Me [clearly not engaging brain]: That's funny Sweetie. Last week you just wanted a pony.

Bambi: Well, okay...I'll have a pony then...

And you wonder why we're moving!

Award from A Broad - 5 August 2007

2007-08-05T14:00:00.000Z

In the past week I have:

Cleaned a house. Properly. Furniture has been moved. Dado rails sparkle. The oven even looks rather impressive - on the inside.
Delivered a full, large car load of clothes, toys and books to Salvation Army.
Delivered another full, large car load of junk to the recycling centre.
Cut back my garden and thanked the good Lord that some neighbours had hired a skip that day which they were struggling to fill. Good neighbour that I am, I was able to help.
Collected boxes from our removal company which is in a Clydebank industrial estate - a drive which took around 45 minutes each way.
Got Bambi's glasses fixed (again).
Gone to the Richard Long exhibition in Edinburgh. (Stunning in its simplicity and beauty. Why couldn't I have thought of creating giant mud murals first!?)
Gone back to Edinburgh for the first day of the festival. Bambi particularly enjoyed the street performers and the Warhol exhibition.
Written a piece about the Warhol exhibition for Topblogmag (out on Monday).

And slept. And eaten. And swum 5 kms. And stuff.

But the blogging is definitely suffering in the build up to the move. I have been visiting many of my favourites but can't seem to actually structure anything to post here. I'm sorry.

In direct contrast to my 'frequent to irregular' posting habits, is this weeks awardee, Sparx, writer of Notes from Inside my Head who has recently gone from being a 'once a week' blogger to one of the 'almost every day' variety. I thought she should know how grateful I am for her Spud-inspired missives as I plough through two years' worth of cleaning and sorting.

Sparx writes predominantly about her son, Charlie, also affectionately known as 'the Spud'. In fact, motherhood is all she writes about. I have not seen her digress into politics, social development or environmental issues - except insofar as they effect the Spud. This is a focused woman. She does work, but as this has never been given more attention than an executive diary entry, I can only assume that her job allows her to spend time in an office somewhere thinking of her boy.

I am a mom and, having got through two and a half years of nappies, occasional sleep deprivation, illnesses, crawling, toddler travel, weaning and so on, I am astounded at how much I enjoy reliving it. But then it is retold in quite the most consistently entertaining manner by Sparx. Thank you so much for keeping me in laughter.

I just can't wait for toilet training...

Raining awards...

2007-08-02T15:46:00.001Z

...which makes a nice change!

What a fantastic and fruitful morning of blog visits! Lots of good reading and....drumroll... TWO awards!

People like me! They really like me! I think. Well, at least they've started giving me stuff to put in my sidebar. I'll take that!

Firstly, I picked up this little beaut from Lady MacLeod:

I'm a little concerned that she interpreted my Award from A Broad as schmoozing....wait...okay, it was a bit schmoozy. So that's okay then!

And then I got this one from Kaycie:

for 'generous bloggers who think of others'. Which, given the amount of incredibly useful information I've got from other bloggers makes me feel like a bit of a fraud.

Truly, thank you both so much. I've been a bit erratic at posting lately - move stuff - which makes for some great ideas for posts but leaves little time to actually write the suckers. So to be getting this recognition makes me feel really inspired to try harder.

These are awards for passing on so for blogger schmooze (which is actually a blogging community award) I nominate:

Sparx

Elsie Button and

Misssy M

Who all keep me in laughter and comments. Which gets to the heart of what I look for in my community!

For the Thoughtful Blogger award, I have been very lucky to have received very real assistance from a few fellow bloggers - very generous indeed so:

Reluctant Memsahib - thank you for the information about Nairobi.

Debio - thank you for the tips on Dubai.

Jenny - thank you for showing me how to make jam!

Now polish them nicely and put them on your sidebar....

Award from A Broad - 29 July 2007

2007-07-30T09:14:00.000Z

Well hello! I've been fighting a losing battle with my broadband. Yesterday it won - hence the late award. Today, I return - unscathed but determined. I will prevail!
Enough dramatics.

The logo has been chosen - offically through the vote, but also by Lady M, who last week successfully guessed the outcome and posted it on her blog. Had the chosen logo differed from her choice I would have asked her to change it (which may, or more likely, may not have worked). But as she got it right, we'll chalk it up to female intuition.

So the logo is:Although I may mess around with fonts and layout in weeks to come. It's all this time I have....

But on to this week's award. Yesterday, among other things, was also my mother's birthday. Happy Birthday Granny!

Which meant that I specifically wanted to find a blog that she would enjoy. The criteria were - funny, warm, posts not too long (my mum is a busy working granny) and clever. And I thought she might enjoy one of my favourites - Drunk Mummy. Please understand that this is no reflection of my mother's drinking habits - her initials are PMW, with the 'M' being for 'Moderation'. Although there was that incident when she discovered vodka and Red Bull at a function in Jo'burg....

But we digress. Drunk Mummy writes a fantastic blog with lots of warmth, humour and advice. The advice portion is strictly about wine. But, fortunately, in the world of Drunk Mummy, there is a bottle for all occasions - house cleaning, camping, swimming in Welsh waters all warrant a glass.

Her style is laid back and light. It's a bit like having a chat with a really good mate. I always leave with a smile on my face. And if you don't, well, you could always drown your sorrows in her recommended tipple.

Mom, you might not be able to actually get your hands on any of the wine suggestions (my mum lives in Cape Town) but I'm sure you can find some suitable substitutes (I repeat, she's in Cape Town).

PS What with the dodgy broadband, this post has taken me four and a half hours to put together. Let it never be said that I am not a dedicated blogger!

The Eulogy

2007-07-28T08:55:00.000Z

A year ago tomorrow my father died. I've been thinking all week what to write about him and have realised that I am not ready to say anything new. So here's what I said at his funeral:

Thank you for being here today to share in this celebration of the life of a man who was straightforward, honest, fair, intelligent, loyal, funny, dedicated to his community and on occasion, even a little cranky and eccentric. A man on whose feet I learnt to dance and whose arms could hug away almost all of my childhood troubles – my Dad Joe.

I think everyone who knew him will remember his sense of humour. Dad never knew what to do when people were sad or upset. Whenever my Mom was unhappy, my brother and I would joke that Dad could be found up a ladder – a place where she wouldn’t follow. His other solution was to crack a joke. So, I thought I should share an example of Dad’s sense of humour.

Dad enjoyed his food and wine and developed a girth to suit his appetite. One day my brother, who was about seven at the time, asked him what was inside his tummy. Well, an illness in Dad’s youth had required surgery and left him with two scars on his abdomen – one long and one small. So father solemnly explained to son that a rugby ball had been inserted into his stomach via the long incision and the small one was for its annual service where it would be re inflated using a bicycle pump. The joke backfired on him a little when his son – who, of course, believed everything his father told him, documented this scientific marvel in a school essay which was later displayed at his school open day.

Dad was really a very practical person. He showed gratitude by repairing plumbing, love through building furniture and social commitment through electrical planning for countless Rotary projects. He was an engineer and in his case I do believe it was a calling – all of the hobbies that he had over the years - yachting, flying model aeroplanes came back to engineering. It was his job but also his greatest pleasure. He did not, however, require that things look beautiful – a recurring bone of contention between my parents - only that they function smoothly and efficiently. I am sure we will be pulling prestik off walls and unwinding recycled wire hangers he converted to many uses for many years to come.

Any tribute to my father would be incomplete without a mention of his life as a Rotarian. He joined Rotary the same year that he married my mother – in 1968 and since then has been committed to serving his community through this organization. He has volunteered his time, skills, energy and even his wife and children on occasion. But I think he always appreciated what he got in return – a deep sense of satisfaction and his very best friends.

A side of Dad that many of you may not be familiar with was his romantic side. The flowers on his coffin are a reminder of the first flowers he ever gave my Mom – Compactas which he called "Hermanus red roses". He was actually quite determined in his pursuit of my mother. He planned the courtship on a calendar – when each family member would be introduced – where he was going to take her and when. And with a great big star on the day he planned to propose. Considering that it was only four weeks from first date to proposal, such organization was required. Six weeks later they were married.

As a teenager with the hormonally charged notion that I would set eyes on some boy at the Bishops disco and have found my life partner – I remember asking him how he knew so quickly that Mom was the woman for him. He told me that he loved her because of her faults. Now, I will agree that on the face of it this doesn’t sound like much of a compliment, but his theory was that one should look for a partner whose failings we could live with which in turn makes their positive attributes so much sweeter. I still think he must have been a remarkable judge of character to have figured that out so quickly. My brother and his wife were together for 6 years before they got married and my husband and I were together for around 3 years before tying the knot so the skill appears to have been lost with him!

On my wedding day my now husband hired a beautiful old car for the occasion. On the way to the church I waited for my Dad to give me one last bit of sage advice. The secret to a long, healthy marriage maybe. But he didn’t. Instead he grilled the owner of the car on all its glorious specifications. Everything from top speed to tyres was covered. But marital advice - none. I remember feeling a bit disappointed at the time. But now I think that he felt his job was done. He was giving me away and, I hope, believed in my ability to figure out the rest on my own.

And now, without the man we loved so much, and with God’s help, that is what we all must do.

Wedding bells

2007-07-27T09:37:00.000Z

Expat postings can be compared to marriages.

At first there's the frisson of being in something new - finding your way around, forming early opinions, the desire to be open minded and to make it work.

Then there's the wedding - the day you find your new home, the furniture arrives and you celebrate having done it.

The honeymoon follows closely thereafter. The routine is new and, therefore, not boring. You relish the new things that are better than the old things that irked in your last posting. You begin to explore your new home. But it still feels like a long holiday.

The marriage begins when the new environment leaves the toilet seat up. The climate may start to challenge, or perhaps local customs leave you questioning your integrity. You offend without meaning to, or take offence where none is meant. For some, these are easily overcome - identified as unique and special, sometimes even embraced.

In other postings, the foibles become too much. It's time for a separation. And then, with the panic of an impending move, you fall back in love with your new home, as you squash all the outings an experiences you were hoping to get to but thought you would have time to do 'later', into a few short weeks. This is where I am now. Marveling at the beauty of Scotland's greenery, splashing in its puddles, in awe of its history. And packing...

We've been lucky so far, our separations have all been quite amicable. Along the lines of 'I think we should just be friends'... but heartfelt.

So Scotland, may I come back to visit one day? And please (please!) do you think you could let it be for a sunny fortnight?

Day off

2007-07-23T08:40:00.000Z

Actually, I'm elbow deep in house cleaning (preparing for new tenants to see the house), sorting clothes, arranging travel vaccinations, etc., etc. So it's not really a day off.

But, if you're interested, here's a piece I wrote for Topblogmag. Still not a featured piece. Maybe one day....

Award from A Broad - 22 July '07

2007-07-22T13:21:00.000Z

Hurrah! We have logos. Yes, that's plural! Which, given that my budget for this project is, um, well, nothing, isn't half bad.

Trawling the options of free logos has been enlightening. I was really only interested in things that had some connection to the title 'Award from A Broad', which limited me to planes and buxom wenches. Sadly, the buxom wench department was either nearing x-ratedness (is that a word?) or frankly quite ugly.

So the short list is as follows:

Option One: Aeroplane tick
You get it right - a big tick from abroad...

Option Two: Buxom trophy

I find it vaguely disturbing that she appears to be kneeling. And that she appears to be fully clothed except for her chest area. But other than that...

Option Three: Heart globe

Because I luv ya!

Option Four: Daisy

Because that's what we broads do - we give each other flowers.

Option Five: Calendar girl

Because it had to be done.

So now you choose - the poll will be on the side bar.

And on to this weeks award.

I think that many of the readers of this blog are already familiar with this week's recipient but I feel her popularity is no excuse to omit her from my list of Uber-blogs.

Lady MacLeod is a Scottish/American globe traveller currently living in Morocco. She writes about her everyday experiences in Morocco, gives tantalising insights into her love life and potted history lessons. Her interest in current affairs is clear with many thought provoking posts tackling the meaty issues that many of us (or maybe its just me) shy away from while blogging.

She researches her topics but is always humble enough consider other points of view. I have been known to disagree with other bloggers and have become quite annoyed with how many delete comments that aren't in agreement with the post. Not so, with Lady M. Opinions are welcomed and the discussion made more stimulating for it.

Lady MacLeod, may this award be proof that I knew you before you were published.

Fun, no matter how you look at it

2007-07-18T11:52:00.000Z

I am the first one to acknowledge that, when sitting inside looking in the rain, it is never a good idea to ponder what the family in Cape Town are up too. But this weekend it was irresistable. After all, they were off the coast of Gansbaai in a cage looking at 4m Great White sharks.

So, had I been in Cape Town this weekend, I can say with some confidence that I would have seen this.

I would have swum in that cage on the right.

That could even have been my arm.

But I wasn't in Cape Town. I was in Scotland.

So instead I went to the Linlithgow jousting tournament (as you do), and saw a knight in shining armour...

men wielding swords...

and men on horses wielding long pokey objects.

All great fun. And I didn't even get seasick!

As an aside, the duel re-enactment involved much hurling of period abuse. Bambi was clearly paying attention.

Mummy, what's a fornicator?

Help!

Scottish children

2007-07-16T14:34:00.000Z

in their natural habitat...

The one on the left actually has a South African mother and an Irish father. But, you know what they say... If it walks, like a duck and talks like a duck....

Award from A Broad

2007-07-15T18:55:00.000Z

We have a winner! For the award, yes, but also for the title. I am proud and honoured that it was my suggestion that swung it. Although, it is possible that this may have been slanted a bit by excessive voting from, well...me.

But moving on swiftly... The next step is to develop an icon. I have a few doodles, but no matter how firmly I glue them to my monitor, I can't get them to stick to my blog. Alas, they also present me as being a little more buxom than a look in the mirror reveals to be the truth. Any suggestions? How does one 'invent' a button?

And now for the main event. The blogs I follow are pretty diverse. I tend to favour blogs written in interesting places or blogs that are particularly funny (and here a surprising number of Mom blogs feature), but there is also a sub-category of blogs that fulfil some purpose in my life - blogs that provide me with recipes (none of which I've actually tried) and those written by people so on the edge that, even in my darkest days, I emerge feeling certain of my sanity. These are known as Blogs with Jobs.

Todays recipient of the newly named Award from A Broad is one such blog. Mr Angry writes a blog called I am Livid. It is a rant blog. Each working day Mr Angry has a really good gripe about something - modern art, cobblers, the odd irreverent whinge about terrorists. I love getting up in the morning, going online and finding that someone has already had a good rant - makes me feel more inclined to be sweet for the rest of the day.

Be warned the language is floral. But as my dear Mum always says, 'rude is fine, as long as its funny.'

I doubt Mr Angry reads my blog and I'm too scared to tell him about this award lest I somehow incur his wrath. But, even when I don't agree with him, he makes me laugh and that's worth some sort of prize isn't it?

Besides if he doesn't know about the award he can't complain that it still doesn't have a button attached to it...

Eating out?

2007-07-13T11:58:00.000Z

Mother at Large has tagged me on a food meme - the idea being that I share the details of five eateries in Glasgow that I would recommend. This is problematic for two reasons:

The cost of eating out here leaves me with heart palpitations. For what I would pay for a beautiful meal at a reputable restaurant with a sea view in Cape Town, I can get a deep fried pizza in Glasgow. Lucky me, this would probably arrive with chips.
Budget eating in Glasgow requires the bulk consumption of grease which, after the heart palpitations would probably just send me straight to the ER.

As you may have guessed we have not eaten out very often since we've been here.
This is not to say that Glasgow does not have some fine, grease-free establishments - just that I have not frequented them. That said, there are a few places we do go to occasionally that I will share:
1. Heart Buchanan on Byres Road - amazing deli, lovely (but painfully small) coffee shop and, if you're getting to the end of the month they will slice you very small pieces of cheese to suit your budget.
2. The Loft in Ashton Lane. Spacious, family-friendly restaurant with good pasta menu. I appreciate that they have no specific kids menu but do kids portions of anything on the menu. It kind of fits my ethos that children are people too. It's also right above the Grosvenor cinema which is handy. But beware of children racing around the wide aisles in Little Tikes red plastic cars. Newbies usually sport shin bruises for weeks.
3. Wagamama on West George Street. Okay, so this is a cheat - it's a chain, I know. But I love good Japanese noodles and they really are good here. Again, it's spacious - I like to breathe between mouthfuls of food and the service is fast but not pressured. The do have a kids menu, but its not the usual fish and chips fare. Bambi particularly loves their chicken noodles which come with a mandarin sauce and slices of apple. Yum.

and that covers my culinary experience of Glasgow. Other attempts in my budget do not bear repeating.
So, instead, I thought I would tell you about my favourite two establishments near Cape Town. Because I'm homesick. Again.

1. Le Petite Ferme, Franschoek winelands. Unbelievable food with incredible views. The Good Man and I have always gone here to celebrate our anniversary - well, when we're in the Cape that is. The form is to have a drink on the lawn in front of the restaurant while perusing the menu, then meander up to your table. Enjoy a glass of the house wine (from grapes grown on the estate) over a fantastic meal and then go for a quick lie down in the shade of a tree to contemplate your expanding girth as you consider the desert menu. Which is sufficiently tempting to draw you in for another round. There is no hurry here. Lunch is considered a three hour affair - only one sitting gets booked. Bliss.
2. The River Cafe, Constantia Uitsig. When the Good Man and I had to introduce our parents to each other in the week before our wedding, this was the estate that we trusted with the food. Of course, this auspicious occasion called for the auspicious big brother of the River Cafe, the award winning Constantia Uitsig Restaurant. But now, dust having settled, we prefer the more casual ambiance of the Cafe. It's strictly a breakfast and lunch affair. Tables are arranged on the terraces and the menu features food that is familiar but always with an interesting twist -perfectly prepared and presented. And the wine shop next door isn't half bad either...

I see much opportunity in this tag. I challenge ('cos lets face it that's what tags really are):

Gwen

Katie, and

Pepette

who may well be able to shine a more informed light on the Glasgow eaterie scene. And its about time I learned!

Reluctant Memsahib - although may I request your recommendations are for Nairobi eateries??? Cheeky, I know

Debio - 'cos I'm hoping to spend a wee bit of time in Dubai soon too.

On a completely different track, my big brother in South Africa is going shark cage diving tomorrow. Now how many of you can say that?!

Eyes right->

2007-07-12T19:04:00.000Z

As some of you may have noticed, democracy has arrived at this blog. After suggestions (mainly from Lady M) and opinions (where Omega Mum and Stay at Home Dad featured strongly), I have drawn up a shortlist for the title of the Sunday Award.

Please vote - it's completely anonymous. So even you lurkers out there who visit but never comment (you know who you are...) can make yourselves heard on this not very weighty issue.

The Journey

2007-07-11T11:43:00.000Z

I went down to Durham yesterday to fetch our new car - peace having once more been made with the British banking system.

I caught an early morning train down, via Newcastle, to Durham and then drove straight back. My ideal would have been to spend a bit of time exploring Hadrian's Wall, or maybe some of the nearby coastline but parenting commitments back in Glasgow did not permit.

That said I really enjoyed the journey. It reminded me of why I don't like flying - firstly because I am afraid the machine might plummet to the ground, but also because flying is too fast and too distant from the action to give a real sense of the journey. Driving a large vehicle along long stretches of highway reminded me of the trip I did with my mom and my dog from Cape Town to Zambia.

Over a distance of over 3000kms we left the pace of the city and moved in convoy with our truck to the sedate and dusty streets of Lusaka. We encountered heat, dust, goats, elephants, giraffes, unbelievable African bureaucracy and phenomenal scenery. Our route took us through Mafikeng, into Botswana, through Nata with its endless salt pan, over the border to Zambia on the Kazungula ferry and onto the Great North Road to Lusaka.

The ferry was undoubtedly the moment of greatest symbolic change- a 400m comma between what I knew in southern Africa and what I would come to know in Central Africa. It slowly carries a truck and a few cars at a time over the crocodile and hippo laden waters of the Zambezi. As you wait your turn there's little to do but ponder the islands and banks belonging to Zambia, Namibia, Botswana and Zimbabwe, and the animals who travel obliviously passport-free between them.

I hear that the new bridge at Shesheke is easing the pressure on the pontoon as many trucks now detour through Namibia. But it took us time to cross the Zambezi – queuing, waiting, chatting with others doing the same. And finally being carried over on the belching platform as it fought against the rivers flow. It was the best introduction possible to Central Africa – chaotic, beautiful, slow. It could not be forced and it all got done in its own way and in its own time. I'm sure it was frustrating at the time but now I long for journeys that speak so accurately and honestly of the destinations they reach.

That award thingy

2007-07-08T13:35:00.000Z

And you thought it was a one week wonder...

There were a good few comments last week that this weekly award thing I've started should have name. And an icon. But as I have no idea where to start with icon design and, as an icon should bear some relation to the name of the award, we'll start with the name.

Lady M had a few good suggestions, but none quite perfect. Observe:
The On the Move Award - but many of the blogs I really like are written by people who don't move. I achieve stability in my life by living vicariously through theirs.
The Expat's Acknowledgment Award - which would mean acknowledging that this is an expat blog. But it's also a Mom blog at times and a personal blog always.
The Hot Woman gives you a Nod Award. Lovely. But lies.
The I'll do anything to Warm Up a Bit and Reading Your Blog Helps Award. Very accurate but not very catchy. Not to mention that by the time you've typed the acronym TIDATWUABARYBHA, you may as well just write the whole thing.

I've been thinking along the lines of thumbs. You know - thumbs up! But also that Bambi is a thumb sucker and it brings her tremendous comfort and joy - which is what these awards are meant to do too. What about the Rear Digit Award (RDA), to guide in in how to spend your recommended daily allowance of blogging? Nah, too obtuse.

Oh well, any suggestions welcome.

So now for this week's announcement. This weeks still nameless award goes to Reluctant Memsahib.

Mem is a writer and mother. She has recently moved from a farm in the shade of Mount Kilimanjaro to another, which she calls 'the outpost'. I know it's in Tanzania and, I'm guessing, its remote. Tomorrow she leaves England, where she has been hunting school placements for her children, to return to her outpost.

Her blog transports me to a place and way of life I have seen, but never lived. Mem writes about the beauty, laughter and peculiar trials of life in East Africa with sensitivity, frustration and affection. Her writing is honest and her take on life often very funny. It is a wonderful blog to visit with a large cup of coffee - be transported.

As an aside, the Reluctant Memsahib also has ties to Kenya and has been a generous source of information to me offline regarding my impending move. I so hope that we can stay in touch and trade stories form our respective corners of Africa in the months to come.

Safe travels home, Mem. I hope the outpost is ready for you!

Annoyed and confused

2007-07-07T18:01:00.000Z

Yup, you're right. Another rant coming. If you're after sweetness and light, go away. Nothing for you here today.

It all started on Thursday when I bought a car on eBay. A four wheel drive which we plan to take to Kenya - cars being ridiculously expensive over there. I got an extremely good deal that would have had me quite worried were it not for the sobbing sounds emanating from the other end of the phone when I called to arrange payment. Anyway, this was not what annoyed me - although I suppose that reveals me as a heartless bitch who had the rest of the story coming to her...

Anyway, the seller would accept Paypal but would then slap an extra 4% on (which starts to negate the joy of a good deal) so we agreed that the Good Man and I would drive down to Durham today and pay him in cash. And then make a weekend of it somewhere pretty on the coast. So far, so good.

This morning I go to the bank to draw my cash over the counter (it was a good deal but still a sum over my daily ATM limit!) and... they're closed! No counter service on a Saturday. What?! I know for a fact that people shop in Scotland on Saturday. And what about people who work 9-5 jobs during the week. What are they meant to do? I'm now confused.

So, now I can't pay cash, I revert back to the Paypal idea. Except they set a limit on the amount you can pay through their system unless you register your bank account - which takes three days. ARRRGHHHH!

I phoned my bank and try to arrange a CHAPS transfer which should have the money in his account on Monday and asked them to email him a confirmation. They do the transfer but say they can only email me 'for security reasons'. Ah, what? How would emailing someone a letter, containing only their bank account details and confirmation that money is being paid into it be a security risk? I don't understand. So they email it to me but via their website and in a format that cannot be forwarded and has no letterhead or mention of the bank name. So it does not prove I've made the payment. Fortunately the seller (who by this stage is utterly sick of hearing from me every five minutes on a Saturday morning) agrees to just let it go.

But the whole experience got me thinking about other things here I don't understand.

Like 'health and safety'. Everything is more difficult because of health and safety. Public pools can sell goggles, costumes and diving hoops for children. But no floats. Health and safety. So it's okay to send them to the bottom of the pool to retrieve a hoop, but God forbid a child should float! Risky that! Children are, however, allowed to bring their own floats to the pool. Somehow having bought them elsewhere renders them 'safe'. Makes you wonder what the staff keep under the till...

We've also been told by various accommodation providers that they are unable to provide travel cots due to 'Health and Safety'. It's much safer for young children to fall out of standard beds?

And gas and electricity bills that reward you the more energy you consume. Now that's confusing! They charge on a sliding scale! You pay less per unit OVER a set threshold. And then you're told how serious energy conservation is. Surely making the first bit cheap and then charging everyone through the nose for using excessive kilowatts or - dammit, I don't know what a unit of gas is - would incentivise people to use less. Bizarre!

Anyway, the upshot is that I'm NOT in Durham. I do NOT have my new car as the seller wants the payment to clear first (fair enough - this does actually make some sense). I'm annoyed, confused and once again convinced that there is a set of rules here that I am simply not meant to understand and that are kept secret from foreigners.

Smeaton in Poetry

2007-07-06T13:35:00.000Z

Got this on email today - have no idea who wrote it. Someone Scottish I would imagine.

Twas doon by the inch o' Abbots
Oor Johnny walked one day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more that he could say

A fanatic muslim bastard
Wiz doin what he'd planned
And intae Glesca's departure hall
A Cherokee he'd rammed.

A big Glaswegian polis
Came forward tae assist
He thocht "a wumman driver"
Or at least someone half-pissed

But to his shock nae drunken Jock
Emerged to grasp his hand
But a flamin Arab loony
Frae Al Qaeda's band

The mad Islamist nut-case
Had set hissel' on fire
And swung oot at the polis
GBH his clear desire

Now that's no richt wur Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray
A left hook and a heid butt
Required tae save the day.

Now listen up Bin Laden
Yir sort's nae wanted here
For imported English radicals
Us Scoatsman huv nae fear

Okay, so it's not quite Rabbie Burns...

Local Heroes

2007-07-05T12:50:00.000Z

The Scottish press today is full of stories of heroism.

At the top of my list is Alan Johnston. Released after a four month ordeal following his capture in Gaza, he handled the media surrounding his release with grace and appreciation. He has a point. The support from the media in campaigning for his release was phenomenal. He was able to hear about their support on a radio he had from two weeks into his captivity, which he makes clear was a powerful 'psychological boost'. He could barely have shunned them in the hours following his release.

But just imagine spending four months in solitary confinement - the last three without exposure to daylight and then, quite suddenly, being thrown into a media circus. Most of us would have been stunned, meek, timid. Instead he was articulate and grateful, highlighting the plights of other hostages and apologising to his family for the stress he had caused.

He even had light moments, getting a quick haircut in an effort to lose what he referred to as 'that just-kidnapped look'. And promising to stay out of trouble. 'I couldn't bear to ask you all to do all that twice, just imagine the embarrassment.'

Being captured and incarcerated doesn't make a hero. But this is a man who lived in Gaza for three years before this incident, reporting for the BBC as sensitively and factually as any journalist I have seen. That's brave.

Now, he is handling his release with such dignity that I have confidence he will make some good come from what must have been a nightmarish ordeal. But it may be in the background. He is quoted as saying, 'You are about to see a rapid decline in my profile. I'm sure that if you hear from me again it will be in the most work-a-day, normal, BBC, journalistic context. The Johnston family is about to go back to the obscurity in which it was extremely happy for about 45 years. '

Mr Johnston, I do hope to hear your voice on the BBC World Service in Kenya.

And then there is a local hero of an altogether different mould. John Smeaton, the baggage handler who brought down the terrorist in Glasgow airport may claim to be no hero but 1000 pints at the Holiday Inn say otherwise. He says he was only doing what anyone else would have done in similar circumstances. Um, am I the only one who fears they may not have tackled a potential suicide bomber if given the opportunity.

You're one brave Weegie, Mr Smeaton.

The secret life of Bambi

2007-07-03T11:15:00.001Z

'Mummy... ,' said Bambi as I was putting her to bed, 'I'm not going to cry and I'm not going to call you back.'

Well, that's a relief, I thought. I'm not very good at guilt before bedtime.

'Lovely, honey, now go to sleep.'

'And I'm not going to hide behind my curtains. And I'm not going to look in my cupboard. And I'm not going to play I spy with Teddy.'

Hey ho! What! Get out of bed? After I've turned the light out? Clearly there has been a little nocturnal action I didn't know about.

We used to listen to Bambi as she fell asleep through the baby monitor. She would begin with conversation and word experimentation. Teddy would be instructed in the ways of the toddler - she'd cover eating with a spoon, drinking through a straw and list her favourite menus - with a strong, but not entirely accurate, focus on chocolate. And then she would sing, which would send her to sleep.

Being a bit concerned about the bedtime conversation I turned on the monitor again for the first time in a long while. There was a bit of muffled conversation and a clear rendition of Twinkle Twinkle before the silence of sleep.

But it was telling that her soft animals were lined up in a row on the floor this morning, carefully covered by a blanket.

'Do you think they slept well Bambi?'

'Yes Mummy. I sang them a lubyebye...'

Drumroll please

2007-07-01T15:43:00.000Z

As promised I am now starting my weekly Great Blog award. Over time I will think of a snappy title and no doubt figure out some fancy graphics too. But right now its just a homespun affair.

Now, before the big announcement (yes, I can see you perched on the edge of your computer chair), the rules. Actually, there are no rules. It's my award based purely on my own opinions and taste in what constitutes a good blog. But there are a few notes, namely:

The award will be presented in random order. Although I am deeply fond of today's winner, it is being named first due to a random process - picture me with a hat and little itty bitty pieces of paper and you'll get the idea. Wait, there's no picture of me on this site so you can't picture me. Okay, so just picture an arbitary brunette with a hat... you get the idea...
This is a no strings attached affair. Winners are not required to nominate other bloggers (although, clearly, sharing the love if you so desire is fine), read my blog in return or even thank me if they do not wish to do so.

Right. That about covers it.

So the winner for today is.................

Stay at Home Dad

He lives in London, raises his daughter and writes about his experience of being a parent. What I love about this blog is the style in which it is written. SAHD provides his readers with accutely observed glimpses into his life with his daughter. He marvels in the minutia that so often slip me by. Everytime I visit his blog I am reminded of something that I fear I may have forgotten were it not for this voice drawing it to my attention. Bliss.

And the London housewives are giving him a spot of bother at the minute. Cheer up Stay at Home Dad. I think you're terrific.

Safe as houses

2007-06-30T21:19:00.000Z

Before I came to Glasgow, I anticipated that our time here would feel safe. By European standards, Glasgow doesn't have the best reputation for crime, but by the standards of most places I've lived it's really secure.

We chose to live in a nice southside suburb where people may twitch their curtains, but would never look inside your unlocked car. The residents of this wee corner of the world sometimes complain that nothing ever happens here but after years of electric fences and endless petty theft that suits me just fine.

I have felt safe here. I walk back from the station after dark on my own sometimes and we have even been known to leave our back door unintentionally unlocked from time to time (please don't tell my landlord), without incident.

And then, this afternoon, two people drove a vehicle into the check in area of Glasgow airport. It ignited, they were arrested and, although significant damage was done to the building, nobody was hurt. Actually that's not quite true. The two people in the car were taken to hospital with burns - I'm finding it difficult to feel too much pity for them right now.

The police now suspect that this is an act of terror linked to the discovery of two car bombs in London yesterday. And the UK is on full security alert.

I think it is human to feel a little less safe when terror breathes down our necks like this. But is it right? A terrible thing happened today. But will I be in any greater danger tomorrow than I was yesterday, when I felt no fear at all? Perhaps, but probably not.

Sadly, the success of terrorism depends on that 'perhaps' - the human response to an unpredictable event. In absolute terms, far fewer people will be directly effected by terror attacks than will have their lives effected by the fear these incidents generate. And then terror wins.

I passed through Heathrow on my way back from South Africa in August last year. It was the last time this country was on high alert and the launch of the liquid-in-hand-luggage restrictions. What struck me was how everyone just got on with it. The queues were unreal and the rumours very frightening. But the great British public know about queuing and developed a quiet camaraderie in the face of it all. There was no panic.

So, no. I am not going to bed afraid tonight. It's something I learnt while living in Scotland.

Look what I got!

2007-06-29T19:20:00.000Z

Annie over at Blooming Marvelous liked me enough to give me a gift. An Award! My first!

I'd like to thank.... well, I'd like to thank Annie I suppose.

It's not an award that involves voting or monetary gain but is, rather, a simple thumbs up from a fellow blogger. I think 'form' dictates that I pass the award on to other bloggers who I really enjoy, which is easier than nominating fellow bloggers for tags - in doing that I always worry that they'll just get cheesed off and stop visiting.

But here's the thing. Annie's post (and, by extention this award) came on a day I was feeling pretty low - a bit worried about the move, a touch self-critical about my time in Scotland, the beginnings of the sense of loss associated with any move beginning to creep in. It arrived on a day I needed approval. And let's face it we all have those days.

So I've decided not to give any awards today. (Stick with me here). Rather, I'm going to nominate a Rocking Blogger each weekend (cunningly allowing myself research time for when I've run through those I already know and love). You never know, I might make a few people's days along the way...

And thanks again Annie!

Summer holidays

2007-06-27T09:03:00.000Z

Okay, I know this is well travelled territory for me, but what the hell is up with the weather in Scotland? Where sunshine is involved, this is the country of false hope.

Through all my misery and whinging about the arctic winter conditions I was comforted by Scottish friends who reassured me that summer here was wonderful thing - warm, sunny days in beautiful landscapes. They regaled me with tales of swimming in lochs, long walks in forests and up mountains. In short, dear readers, they lied.

I doubt this was intentional. You see, the Scots had all booked their tickets to Majorca - a tradition they follow every year, and, therefore, have no clue what a Scottish summer looks like. They are Scottish. Their memories of summer are sunny. Somehow, these facts are mixed together and voila! Sun in Scotland? Lies, I tell you!

Intuitively, the combination of the warmth and good humour of the Scottish nation and it's truly appalling weather are at odds. Most countries with truly lousy climates and long periods of darkness each year have reputations for high suicide rates and depression. With all the scientific backing (cough!) of two years of living here I have developed the following theories as to how the Scots survive:

Theory One: Scots photosynthesise more efficiently than other races. They have the ability to absorb sunshine rapidly and live off it's glow for longer periods of time. They simply don't need more than two days of sunshine a year.

Theory Two: Hope and happiness are closely intertwined. All Scots need is the promise of good weather, not the actual thing. To ensure mental health in Scotland, the met office has introduced the 'catch all' icon. It depicts a sun peeking out from behind a cloud from which rain is pouring down. Anywhere else this would be called 'hedging your bets'. Here it's the daily forecast. It will rain. But the sun may peek out too. Hope.

Theory Three: Scotch whisky.

You would have thought that, by now I would have learnt to follow local wisdom when it comes to holiday planning. But no. While all sensible Scots are beginning the annual exodus to Majorca, I have just booked our summer holiday to Orkney.

If summer hasn't arrived by then.... well, we're leaving in September anyway.

Traveling light

2007-06-25T14:05:00.000Z

When the Good Man and I first moved in together he packed his worldly possessions into a BMW, fetched me from my parent's house with a suitcase and that was it. We stopped at a liquidation centre on the way through to the house we'd just bought and got them to deliver a bed, table and chairs and borrowed linen from family.

We now also own a few sofas and sundry other items which live in our house in Cape Town. But the tone of our life together was set with this first move. We travel light.

Our approach to moving is a little different from most. We set ourselves a target volume and then shed things until we can pack to that limit. For this move, our upper limit is eight cubic metres. We'd like to come in at around six if we can. Given that I usually get blank looks when I 'speak metric', we're targeting less than a quarter of a container. This is not a lot.

The only item of furniture we'll be taking is my mother's oak cheval mirror so that she can keep an eye on us through our travels. A large chunk of the balance will be taken up by art (paintings and sculpture), clothes, kitchen equipment and toys. Pre-Bambi we we would have targeted four cubic metres. She compensates by taking up less space in the car.

Anyway, I have now begun the process of ditching the things we will leave behind. I tend to be quite unsentimental through this process. If I haven't actually looked at something, worn it or used it in six months, it's out.

According to some, this makes me quite a hard person. But it's not that I feel no emotion, rather that I don't link my emotions to items. I like to remember things - they often look better in my memories than they do in reality.

Anyway, I thought I would throw a question out to Blog world:

If you had to pack you and your family's life into eight cubic metres, what would you take? And, perhaps more interestingly, what would you leave behind?

Cheap wine and a three day growth

2007-06-22T15:42:00.000Z

It all started when Bambi had just turned one. Our wee gazelle was an early talker and had several multi-syllabic words under her belt by her first birthday. She could also sing sentences. Yes, sing. She couldn't talk in sentences but could sing full song verses. Strange, but true.

So there we were driving somewhere (I know not where) when our little cherub piped up with,

Cheap wine and a three day growth, oh yeah!

A long look was shared between good man and good woman and Cold Chisel was summarily ejected from the CD player.

All of a sudden we were faced with the not insignificant challenge of finding music for the car that would not result in a visit from Child Services. And that we could bear to listen to as well. Bambi favoured her Rhythm Time CDs. These were sweet to start but got increasingly annoying with each turn of the wheels on the car.

I discovered Dan Zanes (very bearable) and Laurie Berkner (sometimes catchy, sometimes not so much). All seemed on track until my daughter got a lift in a friend's car and came home demanding the 'Doo doop' song. At first I thought she'd been listening to the Andrews Sisters, which seemed odd but innocent enough. It then transpired that my dear friend Janet had been playing the Fratellis for my daughter's listening pleasure. And the 'doo -doop' in question was the opening refrain to Chelsea Dagger.

To be fair I rather enjoy the Fratellis. They're a Glasgow outfit with an upbeat indie sound that now forms the soundtrack to my time in Scotland. That said, their lyrics can get a wee bit hinky. For example I may get concerned if Bambi starts a rousing chorus of She gets naked for a living, she aint afraid of giving, ah huh... in the aisles of Tesco. Or lets rip with He's been out for days, in a deep malaise in her nursery school.

But, for now, enough of me is relieved for the respite from Baa Baa Black Sheep. She can have her doo doop CD. I'll just hum along loudly.

Question Tag

2007-06-20T21:13:00.000Z

Lady MacLeod tagged me with these questions forever ago and I have neglected them. Apologies Lady M.

What were you doing ten years ago?

Let's see. I was chasing a corporate marketing career for a large financial services institution in Cape Town. And I was newly married to my good man. We had bought the cottage you see on the right side of the screen - our home, even now while we travel.

What were you doing one year ago?
I was about to leave Glasgow to spend a month in Cape Town helping my Mom care for my Dad. The month turned to six weeks as it became apparent that the lung cancer he had fought for over a year was to take him. Bambi came with me but the Good Man had to stay behind for much of that time. It wasn't great.

One of the many things I learnt through this time was the importance of all family members in times of crisis - the toddler who gives reasons to smile just by being there and the support of a husband shown from afar. The roles we are to play aren't always obvious, but they are always important.

Five snacks you enjoy
Biltong
Droewors
Cheese - all types
Cashew nuts
Chocolate (heck, I'm a girl after all!)

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics
Twinkle Twinkle little star
Baa Baa Black Sheep
The Wheels on the bus
A B C D
Chelsea Dagger

I would like to stress that this question required the songs I know the lyrics for - not the songs I listen to after bed time. And that Bambi has a deep affection for the Fratellis, requiring knowledge of the lyrics so that humming can be inserted over inappropriate stanzas.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire
In which currency? I was a millionaire in Zambian Kwacha. I bought groceries and paid my bills.
But if I were a pound millionaire I would:
Go for a facial
Renovate my house in South Africa
Take my Mom to Vietnam
Have a shot at persuading the Good Man to consult from home.
Split the difference between Habitat for Humanity and the Starfish Foundation.
I'm actually quite happy with my lot and fear that a truck load of money would quite spoil that.

Five bad habits
I absolutely cannot keep my opinions to myself.
Blogging - which isn't actually bad - but the amount of time I dedicate to it could be considered unhealthy.
I can't say no or exercise restraint when confronted with good food or good wine.
I am loud. Volume is a habit.
I brag about my daughter a lot. She's brilliant and I simply feel the world should know...

Five things you like doing
Reading good blogs - ones that make me laugh and ones that make me cry.
Swimming - I do about 2kms a few times a week
Cooking - especially when I don't have to clean up afterwards.
Painting. This is not to say I'm any good but I enjoy it nonetheless.
Going to the African bush. Wild places heighten the senses and simply make me feel more alive.

Five things you would never wear again
Stilettos - how can they possibly be worth it?
A boobtube. Too much has gone south.
A bikini. Bambi was a big baby. She now has a big mother. I don't feel the need to reveal too much more of this...
My wedding dress - served its purpose.
White lipstick and blue mascara - what was I thinking when I was fourteen!?!

Five favorite toys
Non-misting swimming goggles (although what they allow you to see can be frightening)
Blogger
Youtube
The Good Man
Bambi

I tag:

Reluctant Memsahib
Iota
Gwen (with her walking boots)
Annie (whose Blooming Marvelous)

Daisy chains 101

2007-06-19T13:01:00.001Z

Granny has now gone back to Cape Town. But I've decided not to blog about that - it was the first of many goodbyes to come over the coming months. I will not dwell. I will not!

Instead I thought you may enjoy a short lesson on daisy chain making:

Step One: You'll need some daisies. Scotland is a good place to find them right now. This one's from Skye...

Step Two: Make small incisions in the stems and thread them together. This is tricky, especially if you're two and may require that you stick your tongue out...

Step Three: TADA! Oh dear, it fell off before Mom could take the photo. Quality control is only covered in the next module, Superior Daisy Chain Making!

The problem with Skye

2007-06-17T19:29:00.000Z

To reach Skye, one drives through Dornie. It is not a big place and, were it not for the flight of fancy of a wealthy family in the early 1900s it may have little claim to fame at all. As it is, the MacRae-Gilstrap family bought a wee island there in 1911. On this island stood the ruins of a castle. And for twenty years they painstakingly restored this ruin, turning it into the glorious incarnation of Eilean Donan Castle we know today.

It is hailed by many as the most romantic castle in Scotland and may well be the most photographed. Here's one I took:

Not far beyond this sentinel one suddenly reaches the far more modern outline of Skye Bridge. And beyond that bridge the problem begins.

You see, Skye is magnificent. And breathtaking. It's breathtakingly magnificent. Each corner reveals a vista more glorious than the last. The view from the front is as good as the view from the back. And therein lies the frustration.

It cannot be captured on film. I tried. I took this photo.

Then this one...

And this... (where Lady MacLeod left her tables).

But none come close to the pictures I see when I close my eyes, imagine the warmth on my shoulders and the breeze across my face. None capture the freedom I felt and the deep sense of well being that stayed with me throughout our visit.

The photos have nothing on my memories.

I think I'll get out my paints.

A room with a view

2007-06-15T13:42:00.000Z

We spent last weekend in Plockton, a beautiful village on Loch Carron. It is also a mere hop to the Isle of Skye.

It is impossible to spend any amount of time in Scotland and not be instructed to go to this island. It does, however, come with caveats and warnings. My Scottish friends, all advised the taking of appropriate rain gear and bulk purchases of midge repellant. For the uninitiated the midge is a little blood sucking insect that leaves nasty bites and is the bane of the Scottish hiker. It is also the national bird of Skye.

So armed with fleeces, macs, wellies and enough midge repellant to annihilate the entire species, we went on our merry way. Of course, there is nothing predictable about Scottish weather and generalisations are always dangerous. This time we were quite happy that the locals were proved wrong. The sun came out and it was warm. Really warm. Even I wore t-shirts! All weekend! And there was a light breeze for most of our stay. Not strong enough to make you cold - but just enough to disperse the midges.

There were a few clues that we were rather lucky. Firstly, the postcards all showed beautiful views topped with angry, dark clouds, leading me to suspect that a good day on Skye is high cloud. The other was that sunscreen was incredibly difficult to come by. It clearly isn't in high demand in this neck of the woods.

We were booked to stay on a farm just outside Plockton. The decor could best be described as 'cow and collie'. Particular attention was paid to the display of the photographs of the bulls over the years, one of which watched over the toilet. Inspirational!

Our hosts were real characters. We were treated to their tales of farming, courting in the highlands, gossip from the village and their deep suspicion of anyone from 'the south'. And the breakfasts were fantastic.

But the best part was the view from our room...

That's Skye in the distance. Tomorrow, more of our explorations on the island...

It's Nairobi!

2007-06-14T07:42:00.000Z

That's right! In September we'll be moving to Nairobi, Kenya.

I've told a few friends offline and the responses have been varied. There are those whose eyes gleam in anticipation of safari trips. And there are those whose voices rise a notch and who ask tentatively how I feel about the move. The number in the latter camp has increased dramatically since the bomb blast in downtown Nairobi on Tuesday.

So how do I feel about the impending move back to Africa (but not the part I know)? On the whole, I am really happy about it. I have always wanted to explore East Africa and now I'll have my chance. Nairobi is home to good schools, game parks and an outdoor lifestyle in which, I am sure, Bambi will thrive. The weather will undoubtedly be better. And I can hang up my toilet brush - we'll have staff.

On the other hand, I am realising just how cushioned from risk I have been over the past two years. The UK is a far more controlled society than any I have encountered in Africa. This can be frustrating but does make it a relatively safe place to live.

I grew up In Cape Town in the 70s and 80s. During that time we had numerous bomb scares, incidents of politically motivated violence and high crime rates. Being cautious and sensible was simply a way of life and we got on with it. I anticipate this is how we'll be in Kenya.

And, once again, we will be faced with the stark contrast between the comfortable expat lifestyle we will lead and the desperate poverty in Africa. It has become too easy to push these issues to the back of my mind while living in such a wealthy society. I hope to be able to actually do something while we are there.

So there you have it.

PS. I will write about our amazing trip to Skye soon. With pictures. Sorry for the delay - I've been a bit distracted!

A final clue

2007-06-13T19:12:00.000Z

So far we've had only one real taker on the 'where am I going?' game.

In an effort to ensure webwide success on this question, I offer this picture.

I rank the beastie in the foreground as a pretty big clue....

Alas, this city has also been in the news of late.

Tomorrow, I tell all.

Weekend away

2007-06-08T13:00:00.000Z

We're taking Granny to the Highlands this weekend. Hopefully, by the time we get back on Wednesday, I'll be able to reveal all about the move.

As a taster though, the picture shows the skyline of the city we will more than likely be moving to. Guesses anyone?

Globe toddler

2007-06-07T09:26:00.000Z

Bambi was born in Cape Town. At six weeks we took her to Zambia and at ten months we moved her to Scotland. For the first year and a bit of her life, those first six weeks represented the longest period of time during which she hadn't flown somewhere. She flew to the bush. She visited South Africa a few times. She's also been to Victoria Falls. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I have tended to treat my daughter a bit like a laptop.

Perhaps it's because of this early start, but she travels really well. Of particular entertainment value is her early interest in languages. You see, Bambi may have only walked at 15 months, but she's been talking since 11 months. She's just never been worried about giving words a go. So when the hotel concierge in Paris said, 'Bonjour!' to my wee 14 month old princess as she crawled behind the reception desk, she shot back a 'Bonjour!' all of her own. And we got the best service imaginable for the rest of our stay.

In South Africa she leaves most homes with a breezy 'Totsiens!' and greets anyone with a tan with 'Molo!'. As there are actually 11 official languages in South Africa she's not always on the money, but her efforts raise a smile anyway.

I do sometimes question our decision to live a nomadic life and, in the rundown to a move, I do worry about the effect this could have on Bambi. It was, after all, our choice, not hers. She has friends here - in fact she definitely has a best friend here. One whose absence will be noticed and whose presence will be missed. I keep in touch with my friends and I hope to teach her to do the same but it is a difficult one to explain to one so young.

I just hope that her budding interest in different cultures and languages makes it as worthwhile for her as it is for her parents. I hope that she doesn't hate us one day for not having given her a geographic base from an early age. On the whole she seems pretty happy with her lot in life. But teenagers can be decidedly odd - you just don't know what to expect. I fear the hormones, and the ammunition I may have given them!

For those who read between lines, yes, our big news is that we will be moving in the next few months. The details of the destination have yet to be ironed out. But here's a clue. We're probably going somewhere we've never lived before, but I anticipate living there as much as if I were going home...

Scary things

2007-06-05T14:48:00.000Z

The night before Easter, my normally confident little Bambi announced that she was 'a bit scared' of the Easter Bunny. It transpired that she had seen two people in bunny outfits handing out eggs and (do give a child credit here) thought something was amiss. As tempted as I was by the thought of a sugar-free Easter, I felt that some Easter eggs should make it into the fray (not the least for me!) and began negotiations.

She was not buying the story about the human sized bunnies being fake - this was clearly what differentiated the Easter Bunny from normal bunnies. Extra height and reticulated thumbs are quite obviously what gives him his supercharged chocolate producing powers. Eventually we promised to not let him into our house. But, if it rained, he was allowed to leave any offerings inside the storm door. One should always take care not to let one's chocolate offerings get soggy, you understand.

Then, several weeks later, she announced that she was scared of Barney. This made more sense. A large, purple dinosaur would freak me out too if I hadn't made the whole person inside connection. Don't let those catchy tunes fool ya!

But then, when I asked her what she thought Barney was going to do to her if she met him, she told me that he would tickle her. Exuberant tickling by a large purple dinosaur....hmmmm. Okay, fair enough. Again we decided that, should Barney ever visit our street we would simply not let him into our house and take cover in the pantry.

Today I took Bambi and Granny to see The Wiggles - Live in Concert at the Royal Concert Hall. Her first foray into live theatre was in the form of four loudly dressed Australian men. I'm still not too sure how I feel about this. I had imagined something more highbrow. Carmen for Kids, or The Nutcracker perhaps. At least Dan Zanes. But then he didn't make it to Glasgow.

Anyway, before spending a fair whack on tickets I asked her if she was scared of The Wiggles.

'No Mummy. They're men. Like Daddy.'

Just wait till the Good Man hears that he's a hip-wiggling, primary colour-wearing, Aussie accented singer of itty ditties. At least in the eyes of his daughter.

What nonsense!

2007-06-04T07:05:00.000Z

I know that there are plenty of newspapers and magazines that make their bread and butter from sensational headlines. For many, that the headline may be misleading is incidental at best, if it is able to generate sales en route to the recycling bin.

Before yesterday, I would have put The Times into the other category - those who report more responsibly with usually thoughtful commentary on politics and opinion.

Front page of the Sunday Times (Scotland) carried the headline: Scots NHS and 462,000 'avoidable deaths'. The article, by Mark Macaskill, states: The deaths have been blamed on a series of failings, including GPs not recognising symptoms early enough, unacceptable delays for hospital treatment, poor access to drugs and botched operations.

The term used for 'botched operations', incidentally, is 'misadventures during surgery' which does conjure up images of the cast of Grey's Anatomy in pith helmets. But moving on...

Shock! Horror! Nearly half a million people dying for going to the doctor! However, the rest of the article actually reveals the following:
The figure represents a period of 30 years during which time millions upon millions of people would have been treated. In fact, the avoidable death rate for men is 176 for every 100,000 which translates to just 0.17%. For women it's lower, at 123 per 100,000 (0.12%). Figures are shown to be lower in Austria (129 per 100,000) and Italy (100per 100,000) but given the minute figures we're talking about when we get away from that ridiculous headline, I wonder the extent to which they're even statistically significant.

The author of the report, Dr Colin Fischbacher, is also quoted as saying, better treatment could have saved the lives of almost all the patients who died. Considering that many died of cancers and heart disease, both of which can be unpredictable, I find this quite a sweeping statement.

Then, on page 13 is a further diatribe. In an article titled 'The Killing Wards' and illustrated by a picture of a ward with each bed playing host to a coffin (nothing overly dramatic here!), Mr Macaskill reveals that, while undoubtedly the figures for Scotland are higher than other European countries, they have improved significantly over the last 20 years. Of course, this is couched in several column inches of doom and gloom so you really have to look for it. That will happen with good news.

The chief executive of the Patient's Association is quoted as saying:

It's getting to the stage where people are going to be scared of going to hospital. The NHS is supposed to be a wonderful thing but this study makes a mockery of that.

Really? The NHS is a wonderful thing. I reckon a 0.17% chance of something going wrong when you go to hospital is pretty good odds. And, that these figures are improving is impressive to me. Ultimately healthcare professionals are human and human error is always going to be a factor.

Don't get me wrong, if one of my loved ones was the victim of a 'misadventure' I would sue the suckers for all I could - and still be completely gutted. But we are not talking about a crisis here. We are talking about a very small chance of things going wrong when people require medical treatment. I'm actually surprised it's as low as it is.

Even Dr House, with the benefit of a squad of scriptwriters and Hollywood advisers gets it wrong occasionally. Probably somewhere around 0.17% of the time.

Rant over!

Three Scottish Piles

2007-06-03T07:24:00.000Z

Scotland is well known for its castles. And well it should be - they are gorgeous and allow us a small glimpse into history, and a way of life which may well be gone forever. They also make an excellent backdrop for weddings and other special occasions. Every country should have a few.

Take this one for example:

This is Culzean Castle on the Ayrshire coast. On a clear day you can see Arran from its front windows and it has a 500acre garden including a deer park. A lovely place for horse riding, but, perhaps a bit tricky if you're trying to locate a lost welly. It is the former home of the Marquess of Ailsa but, as is not uncommon these days, the family couldn't find the funds to pay the necessary taxes on the property, or pay the army of cleaners/gardeners/ maintenance folk to look after the place. Having a small issue with the arctic conditions in Scotland I would also hazard a guess that the heating bills were a touch staggering.

Anyway, the castle was gifted to the National Trust for Scotland and now anyone with £12 can spend a day there. I like to pretend it's all mine. The trick is to dress down - lots of tweed and green boots - and stride confidently while wielding a riding crop. I probably don't fool anyone but I have had a few long looks.

Of course, not all lairds have handed over their homes. Take this one:

That's Blair Castle in Perthshire - ancient seat of the Dukes and Earls of Atholl. It is beautiful and also boasts some significant acreage, but it is telling that the current Earl lives in South Africa. This family's solution to the tax/staffing/utilities issue has been to open the family home to the public. I suppose if he's lapping up the sunshine in SA he probably doesn't find this too intrusive.

It is a really lovely spot - beautiful art exhibits and fantastic furnishings. Bambi quite liked it - that's her saying, 'Mine, mine, mine!'.

But the prize for Eccentric Things to do with your Scottish Pile goes to the Earl of Glasgow. His wee spot, Kelburn Castle, currently looks like this:

He has let a team of Brazilian Graffiti artists loose on it! The castle is still owned by the family but the grounds are open to the public. What makes this place particularly special is that it has been developed exclusively with whimsy in mind. It is home to the Secret Forest - glorious woodland punctuated with goblin houses, woodcutter huts, crocodile swamps, giant's castles and a maze.

Theoretically, it's targeted at children, and all the houses and tunnels are built to child scale, but who can't love a place so full of imagination and fun. Bambi certainly tired of it before Granny and I did!

And I bet you thought this post was going to be about hemorrhoids!

She's here

2007-05-31T15:52:00.001Z

The Good Granny has arrived. It turns out she was on an aeroplane, which is good as I'm not sure where I would have gone to fetch her had she arrived by balloon.

Bambi leapt straight into her arms, the five months since they last saw each other floating away into the distance as they quickly reaffirmed their bond. Gifts were given, biltong shared, stories told and announcements made (Granny, when I grow up I want to be a tooth fairy).

And now they're curled up together on the couch doing whatever it is that grandmothers and granddaughters do after too-long separations. I have not been invited.

And all is as it should be.

Antici.........pation

2007-05-30T08:03:00.000Z

Bambi's life has turned into a rotational chart filling extravaganza. It all started with the No-accidents-for-ten-days-and-you-get-a-doll Chart (my erstwhile sensibilities about bribery now being but a vague memory). It took the form of ten little raindrops (at least that's what we told visitors they were), one to be coloured in each dry day. Dry trousers that is, not dry weather, or Bambi would still be doll free.

Then the Good Man started travelling and, as proof that it is possible to buy forgiveness, we invented the Six-sleeps-till-daddy-comes-home-with-a-dress Chart (a little clothes rack), and the Eight-sleeps-till-daddy-gets-home-with-biltong Chart (wee cows), and the Three-sleeps-till-daddy-gets-home-with-fancy-chocolates Chart (teddy bears - not sure why).

But now we are on the final hurdle of an extra special chart. It is one more sleep until Granny arrives. It shows nine balloons - I didn't think Bambi could handle a longer countdown although I've been secretly counting down for much longer. The significance of the balloons is merely avoidance - I hate flying and can't face thinking of people I care about on aeroplanes either. I can just about deal with an image of my mother clutching a bunch of balloons as she traverses the African continent.

And she's bringing biltong.

oh goody!

Oh, what a good girl am I!

2007-05-29T10:27:00.000Z

I noticed that the information campaign about the smoking ban in England has started to get going. Of course, Scotland, advanced nation that it is, has had the ban enforced since March 2006.

This got me thinking of my long-lost, pack a day smoking habit and how little I miss it. I started smoking when I was in high school (didn't we all?) but really got going in Germany. I like to talk and couldn't speak the language. Smoking gave me something to do other than looking vacantly at people wandering by. By the time I learnt the language I was addicted.

I think the most bizarre thing about smoking is how it can be considered cool - admittedly only by other smokers - while being so utterly and recognisably vile. It smells bad, tastes bad, paints your teeth and fingers yellow. How anyone with a smoking habit can NOT know that it is bad for you is beyond me. Waking up every morning with a burning throat and a choking cough do not strike me as being hard to interpret. And yet I smoked for several years.

And then the Good Man woke up one morning and, before you could say 'hypochondria' announced he had a tight chest and was going to stop smoking. He'd been at it for the best part of twenty years by then, so I naturally thought it would last about 3 hours. I even agreed that, as long as he didn't smoke, I would only smoke outside. This kind act illustrates two things:

I knew that smoking was a bad idea - I wanted to support him in kicking the habit. And yet, I gave no thought to actually stopping myself...

I can be really stupid. It gets could outside - even in Cape Town sometimes. And you always want a cigarette when the baddies are about to be caught but can't see the TV from the garden. Outside is lonely...

Much to my surprise, he really didn't ever smoke again. And then began the conspiracy. Our office building became non-smoking and we were forced to huddle in small groups on the balcony around overstuffed ashtrays. The place was like a walking crematorium. And then they designated smoking areas in restaurants. I slowly started to realise that us smokers were becoming very uncool.

Two years later I got laryngitis and honestly didn't want to smoke for a whole day. It was quite nice being allowed in the house so, as a kind of cruel, self inflicted torture, I decided to not smoke for another day. Then, I thought, with two days down, I may as well try for a week. Just to prove that I wasn't actually addicted to cigarettes and was still in control of all aspects of my life (motherhood has now put paid to that myth, but I digress...), I went for another week. Several weeks have now passed - somewhere around 520, I think.

Today, I decided to price cigarettes, just to see how much I'm saving ten years on. Flipping heck!!! £5.30 a pack!!! That's £160 per month. While I'm tempted to look at this as a potential city break a month for being virtuous, it would actually mean having £160 less to spend on stuff each month. Like living in a dodgier neighbourhood, or never shopping at Sainsbury's. Unthinkable!

It actually means that stopping smoking can improve your lifestyle as well as your health.

Looking back I just can't remember why I bothered.

8 (more) things

2007-05-27T13:37:00.000Z

I'm not very interesting really. The first time I got tagged I was flattered and had a clean slate to work from so made it through my list without revealing too much about my rather dull existence. But now I've been tagged again, by Theresa.

The first eight were tough enough, so this could get very boring. Feel free to move on.

My Good Man is allergic to alcohol. I loudly expound on the ills of drunk driving while he chauffeurs me home after one too many.

I grew up next door to a gynaecologist. When I was seven, his twelve year old son took it upon himself to educate me - in the textbook sense. His father's tomes about the female functions were explained in full. There is such a thing as too much information. However, one connection was made abundantly clear - sex means babies. I never had a problem saying 'no' and Bambi was very well planned.

I nearly got arrested in Germany for breaking into my High School to throw a party. It was an annual tradition that I got a bit too caught up in as I was the only one who could figure out how to remove the hinges from the doors to get us in. Fortunately, the police recognised that it was a pretty pointless thing to get too excited about and that, really, all should be more concerned about students breaking out of school. But, man were we ever considered cool the next day in class!

I paint, but only in oils. Watercolours require too much commitment.

My favourite African animal is the leopard. I've got to be pretty good at spotting them in the bush. They're easiest to spot when reclining in trees. Their tails hang down vertically - nothing else in the bush is so straight and so vertical.

My favourite Scottish animal is the Highland Cow. So hairy and forlorn. And they don't move very fast so are easy to spot.

When I was thirteen I made a cake tin full of chocolates to be distributed to guests on Christmas Day. We were celebrating in Hermanus, an hour and a half away. I left a few days early with my parents but it was scorching hot and the chocolates wouldn't have made the journey, so I left them with my older brother to bring along on Christmas day. He arrived having eaten all but six of the chocolates. My revenge has been telling this story to all mutual acquaintances since.

I get fairly emotional whenever I hear children sing, but the African Children's Choir reduce me to tears every time.

I need more blog friends (blogends?) as I don't know who to nominate to carry this tag on. If you'd like to nominate yourself please respond in the comments and I'll make it official.

Questions anyone?

PS Nominees (so far) are:

Gwen

Katie

Aminah (hello new friend!)

Bambi's new glasses

2007-05-25T10:44:00.000Z

Mommy, I think my glasses make me very big.

And beautiful.

And clever.

And, in fact, I think they make me very adorable.

Yes dear, but they're doing nothing for your modesty.

What shall we do when the novelty wears off!

Superstition

2007-05-24T08:31:00.000Z

Still no news...

Before I met my Good Man I spent around twenty years walking under ladders, standing on cracks in the pavement and trying out extreme sports on Friday the 13ths. I never worried about lucky numbers, always simply bought the next ticket in the raffle and laughed when people wasted salt by throwing it over their shoulders.

Then he arrived. Wandering up my parent's garden path to fetch me for a get together, he spotted my mother's black cat. We retrieved him ten minutes later from behind the conifer. My mom interpreted this as a wish on his part to shower our relationship with good luck. In a story now often repeated in our family, she told a friend that afternoon that this was the man I would marry. Which was interesting as we didn't become romantically involved until nearly six months later.

I, on the other hand, still burst into fits of laughter at the mental image of him peaking out from behind the conifer, trying to figure out how to avoid crossing the cat's path... or is the cat crossing his path. What a test - to bring bad luck upon yourself, or to look like a complete idiot in front of your future wife and her mother! Fortunately, I have a great deal of fondness for the ridiculous.

And so began my education of all things luck related. First I learnt the rules - and, with the Irish, there are many. My favourite category is Celtic Feng Shui. One's feet should not point to a door when sleeping (or you'll apparently be carried out clogs-popped in the morning). You must enter and exit a home through the same door so as to leave the luck in the house, which leads to some interesting departure maneuvers at my in-law's house - they have three doors. And the more horseshoes, hung at precisely the correct angle above the door, the merrier.

I have learnt to not walk barefoot in my kitchen when the Good Man has been cooking as the combination of wood and salt can be slippery. And I am a keen study of motion in trees lest we only see one magpie at a time.

On the whole I think its all a bit of a laugh. But, when it really matters, when my Good Man really wants something to happen with all his heart, I will not jinx it by telling too early.

Wish us luck!

The Elephant in my Brain

2007-05-23T07:17:00.000Z

I have a great big piece of news that I'm not allowed to talk (or write) about until it's all confirmed. And, no, I am not pregnant.

The problem is that this big piece of news is taking up all the space in my head and demanding to be released. The only thing for it is to not write anything at all.

Fortunately, I have a piece published in topblogmag this week (not blog of the week, mind you, just an also ran) so if you really would like to read something of my adventures in Africa, feel free to have a look there.

It's not as big as the elephant in my head, but it does have a rhino in it!

Highstepping Holyrood

2007-05-22T10:14:00.000Z

I've always wondered at the name 'political party'. Well, rather I've wondered at its application rather than the actual words themselves. You see, in my mind, a party is a gathering of diverse folk, usually imbibing alcohol, perhaps dancing and generally being nice to one another.

Political parties are, by their nature, homogeneous. With the exception of the odd little in-fight and wrangle for group supremacy, they don't seem very festive to me at all. I think they would be better named as tribes. Yes, tribes! With chiefs and elders jostling for position before taking on opposing tribes with policy as pangas and manifestos as missiles.

If you ask me, a 'party' would more accurately describe the aftermath of an election - such as the position in which Scotland now finds itself. After the mud-slinging, back-stabbing and mountains of recycling created by the election, everyone seems to be on strangely good terms. Coalitions are the talk of the town, and even where alliances are not formally forged, tacit back scratching seems to be the order of the day. Its difficult to not feel a little suspicious.

But having read the Sunday Times this week my normal levels of suspicion are slowly bubbling over with conspiracy theory lava. The top story from the newly elected SNP is that they want Scotland to field its own team at the Olympics. Now, it's not that I have particularly strong opinions about his one way or another, just that it seems a bit of a lightweight issue. But then again maybe I'm missing something. Maybe the Olympic dream sits at the heart of the Scottish psyche and I've just missed it.

I can't pretend to have ploughed through the 76 page SNP manifesto but there was certainly no mention of the Olympics in their 4 page First Steps publication.

Something's up I tell you...

Most Beautiful City in the World

2007-05-20T07:33:00.001Z

We went to friends for dinner on Friday. Actually, he's French and she's Swedish so, to be accurate, we went to theirs for cheese, meatballs and red wine on Friday. It was a get together in honour of their impending departure from Glasgow - in two months they will be living in Tunisia.

It was a gathering of academics, which is not as dull as it sounds. There were probably more doctors in the room than in your average A&E but if something goes wrong around this bunch you're hoping its a coup attempt requiring political intervention, rather than a deep cut requiring stitches. I used to find these groupings quite intimidating but have now grown quite used to my role as token housewife.

Anyway, a lot of the people at this gathering move around and so we got talking about where we'd all been - the good, the bad and the ugly. I was chatting to Tiger - born and bred in Oxford but with lingering Jamaican affiliations (mon!). He'd spent time in Cape Town and we were having a terrific time comparing notes on the beaches, mountains, sunsets, sigh....

'Yeah,' he said. 'It's so beautiful. I think it's probably the second most beautiful city in the world, mon.'

A stunned silence filled the room. My fierce loyalty to my home town is not a well-guarded secret and they could sense some tension brewing. Even Tiger looked a bit concerned when he tore his eyes away from his pina colada and noticed the guttural sounds emanating from the back of my throat.

'So what's the most beautiful then?' I growled.

'Rio.' he said, backing away slowly. Lucky for him our hosts stepped in, shoved a glass of wine into my hand and began regaling us of their tales in this South American idyll - something about the beaches, the mountains, the national beachware dress code - and 8 million people. I put my fingers in my ears and began to hum.

Eventually, two minutes later, they moved on to a discussion of other cities in the world. The rules of engagement were that at least two people had to have been to the city in question for it to make the honour role. Rio, Cape Town, Paris, Budapest and Istanbul all got favourable reviews. Islamabad was not so lucky. There were several also-rans in between - like Glasgow, for example.

But I still left feeling a bit insulted about Cape Town's second place.

I think I'll just blame that on Rio, mon.

I'm it!

2007-05-18T13:00:00.000Z

Yup, I've been tagged. While I do wish I could be blase about it, I actually feel like I've won a popularity contest - thank you Lady M!

You've probably read a few of these lately - the blogger needs to reveal eight facts in their entry and then nominate five other bloggers to do the same.

My eight facts are:

I was born in a coastal village called Hermanus, best known for its annual whale-watching season. At the time it was a tiny little place with no hospital, so I was born on the doctor's couch. The doctor's practice later became an off sales and for years I told people I was born in a bottle store. Surprisingly few considered this strange.
I speak fluent German thanks to a year spent there as a Rotary Exchange Student.
Before coming to the UK I had never used a washing machine, put petrol in a car or done ironing. This was a result of having grown up with other people doing these things for me in South Africa and Zambia - and it is pitiful, I know.
I was surprised at how easy washing machines are to operate and cars are to fuel. But I still don't iron.
Since becoming a mother I have developed an inconvenient fear of flying. I can also not bring myself to take sleeping pills or anything else that may dull my senses while in the air, as I have an irrational belief that I could do something to change my fate if I was plummeting to the ground from 30 000ft.
I love speaking in public. Give me a captive audience and I'm a happy woman.
For my next wedding anniversary I would like to go to Treetops Camp in Kenya.
(This one may not surprise you!) My Good Man reads my blog. And he's not very good with subtle hints.

Dear nominees, the best thing about blog tagging is that there are no repercussions should you choose to ignore this. Lets face it, there are probably no repercussions for ignoring chain letters either but I find it difficult to go to bed when someone has predicted my impending doom for failing to 'pass it on'. Should you choose to ignore this, feel free to get a good night's rest.

That said, I would love to know eight things about:

Reluctant Memsahib

Kerry-Anne at Cape Town Daily Photo

The blooming marvelous Annie

Jenny, our Mountain Mama

And Katie, our resident long-ayelander.

Dunfermline in the news

2007-05-16T17:12:00.000Z

You know how it is. You hear a new word, or someone tells you about a new place and then it keeps cropping up...

I was reading Katie's blog - she's an American currently living in Glasgow. anyway, the post was called called A Monkey Made Me Do It and starts:

A man in Dunfermline has been placed on the sex offenders register after rubbing a woman’s leg during the movie King Kong. Alistair Douglas touched Gemma Smart’s leg for approximately two minutes. He later said that his actions weren’t sexually motivated, claiming that he rubbed her leg because he thought that part of the film was funny.

As Katie, correctly points out, a chuckle, nay even a chortle, may have been a more appropriate response to a humorous scene, but not in Dunfermline.

Then I found this gem:

A Scottish funeral home has come under fire for using the ashes of cremated bodies to grit the pavement in icy conditions. Staff at Co-op Funeralcare in (you guessed it!) Dunfermline say that the ashes were also used to increase the traction on the wheelchair access ramp.

At least, I suppose, they're not trying to drum up more business.

Dunfermline is in Fife. If you're planning a visit, it's on the A907 and, I hear, the circus is in town.

However, if you're on your way to St Andrew's it can be avoided by taking the A985 if you're following the coast or the A977 north.

Just thought you should know...

Flatdogs flashback

2007-05-16T12:34:00.000Z

When we lived in Zambia we spent as much time as possible in the South Luangwa Valley. It's a magical place heaving with big game, but very difficult to get to, so not heavily populated with tourists.

Those who do make it there are usually either wealthy tourists, who fly in and stayed at the luxury lodges, or backpackers, parking their tents and kicking back after a bone-jarring drive in an overland vehicle over some off the worst roads in Africa. Both groups tend to settle in and use local operators for trips into the game reserve. Many don't even bother with the game drives. Zambian parks have no fences and elephants, giraffes, vervets and hippos are all regulars at the lodges.

We fell somewhere between the two. The Good Man and I prefer bush travel of the DIY variety. We love the thrill of finding our own game sightings, guessing at the rhymes and metres of the bush and, occasionally getting it right. So we would drive our trusty 4WD over potholes you could hide a goat in and over corrugations which shook at least three fillings loose, to this African Eden.

In our quest as big game hunters (of the strictly photographic kind I hasten to add) we try to talk to the professional rangers, recognising that, no matter how great our prowess at navigating sandy river beds while being pursued by rampaging elephants, we have a lot to learn. There is nothing like local knowledge for predicting the whereabouts of the elusive 'pretty kitties' of the African bush.

To this end, on our journeys to South Luangwa, we made a habit of staying at Flatdogs. When we were last there it was owned by a chap called Jake de Motta, hailed by Lonely Planet as 'a legend in his own lunchtime' but largely managed by Jess and Adie, who are still there. The great thing about Flatdogs (other than their riverfront position, proximity to the game park and readily available nachos) was their bar. It was a meeting place for the locals who would regale all who would listen with their adventures and exploits. I think there was an annual award given for the tallest tale - everyone's snake was the longest, lion the most hungry and buffalo the most, well, plain pissed off. It was worth missing the night drive for the excitement of the bushlore.

We were also fortunate enough to be there for a few quiz nights. I'm not really much of a quiz night girl, but these were brilliant. You see, most contestants would have been in the bush for a while and were completely ignorant of anything that had happened since their arrival. As the only one with an internet connection, Jess would structure these fantastic multiple choice questions on current affairs eliciting highly creative responses from her, no doubt, usually well-informed guests.

It was terrific theatre and the only thing cold was the beer.

Dance of the dust bunnies

2007-05-14T19:57:00.000Z

Before the Good Man left for South Africa he broke the vacuum cleaner. Let's not digress into the division of labour in our Good Home. Suffice to say, he won't touch a toilet brush. The vacuum is the price he pays.

He yanked it to the far side of the lounge straining the plug to breaking point, and, what do you know? It broke. He found a screwdriver, poked about a bit, it still didn't work. So he left the continent.

That was a Thursday. By Sunday, the party started. The strands of hair began a tete-e-tete with the radiator dust. They flirted a bit, got past first base and by Tuesday they were the proud parents of a burgeoning brood of dust bunnies. I looked at the vacuum cleaner. I stared at the screwdriver. I saw a future where I would vacuum and clean the loo. I scooped up Bambi and took her to visit friends.

By Thursday Bambi thought they were looking hungry and fed them some of her vegetables - escape-peas we like to call them. On Friday morning we gave them names. And on Friday afternoon the Good Man returned.

'So you didn't fix the vacuum cleaner then?' he said on meeting Flopsy and Flo at the door.

On Saturday morning I woke to a newly repaired vacuum cleaner whining its way through the downstairs of our house. Bambi was helping her Dad. I could hear her vacuum cleaner too. It's pink, has Barney on it and sings.

Clean up, clean up
Everybody, everywhere
Clean up, clean up
Everybody do your share!

Carbon emissions just hot air?

2007-05-13T15:50:00.000Z

In March I watched a fascinating documentary on Channel 4. It was called 'The Global Warming Swindle' and put forward the theory that global warming is not the result of people induced carbon emissions but, rather, by solar activity. This was presented in a very persuasive fashion by a group of respected scientists, a few of which had actually been involved in the UN Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, and were a bit annoyed to have been named as supporting its findings when, in actual fact, they thought it was a lot of nonsense propaganda serving only to perpetuate the 'global warming industry'. That was a very long sentence. I hope you caught it.

That's it!, I thought. The brown stuff is sure to hit the turning thing over this one. Environmental issues always spark hefty debate here, I thought. But no. Channel 4 was not closed down on account of its 'slur'. The scientists involved were not flogged on the street, or even through the press. One little article in the Independent was all I found. All was quiet...

I think it may be a bit like the emperor's new clothes. No one want to be the first to say, 'Excuse me but have we all been fed a line?' Or maybe, 'Excuse me Al Gore, you're full of it!'. Which if the 'it' in question is carbon, just may be true.

It turns out that a few of the graphs in the documentary were based on old data and some stats were questionable, but not all. There was quite a lot of substance to these claims too and so, here I am. Whispering into the darkness to my audience of, oh, about ... not very many(including several relatives). I don't think that global warming is caused by carbon emissions alone. In fact, I suspect they may not play a very big role at all...

Now before anyone gets too excited and I lose my audience of, oh... not very many (including several relatives), I would like to make the following clear:

I recycle. I don't believe that with burgeoning population issues we should have to live in a tip. We need to find ways of making waste work.
I don't fly short haul. At least I try not to. But as I hate flying this is not a great sacrifice.
I try my level best to keep my gas and electricity consumption down. This is a tricky one for me, as anyone who has read more than three posts on this blog will know that I have been cold for the last 18 months. But fuels are a limited resource and sustainability still requires a solution.
I believe that the manufacturing and mining sectors should be held accountable for the amount of toxins and noxious fumes they spew into our rivers, oceans and air. I don't want to swim in it and I don't want to breath it. There must be an alternative to making people sick.
I walk whenever possible. If it didn't rain so much, I would walk more. And it would be even more pleasant without the car fumes.

So, even if carbon emissions were solely responsible for global warming, I probably wouldn't do things differently. But I don't like the sham and I worry about the decoy. If global warming is going to happen anyway, shouldn't we be focusing our minds on dealing with that issue rather than banging on about cars and aeroplanes?

Earlier this week, the German Spiegel published an article titled Not the End of the World as We Know It. It's a long article, but give it a read anyway. In case you don't, a key paragraph states:

Keeping a cool head is a good idea because, for one thing, we can no longer completely prevent climate change. No matter how much governments try to reduce carbon dioxide emissions, it will only be possible to limit the rise in global temperatures to about 2 degrees Celsius (3.6 degrees Fahrenheit) by the end of the century. But even this moderate warming would likely have far fewer apocalyptic consequences than many a prophet of doom would have us believe.

The article goes on to talk about the infrastructural developments required to prevent against predictable weather change, for example, drainage in northern European countries. It puts forward the level headed opinion that there will be winners and losers as our planet warms. Through a bit of forward planning the losers could lose a lot less.

What do you think?

PS Watch the Global Warning Swindle here (be warned its 1hr13min long) or read about it here, which will take less time but doesn't have as many pictures...

Mothers' Day

2007-05-13T08:46:00.000Z

Today is Mothers' Day in South Africa. And America. But my Mom is in South Africa, and this is my blog. So it's Mothers' Day in South Africa.

In some ways, my Mom scores. When all the Mother's Day paraphernalia hits the shops in the UK, I am powerless to resist and invariably call my Mom to wish her a happy Mothers' Day. This causes some confusion as, as far as she is concerned, its just another Sunday in March. But she seems happy to hear from me nonetheless.

And then, when the South African version rolls around, I get hundreds (well, maybe it's tens) of emails from friends in SA with Mothers' Day messages. I can't face the thought of my Mom not hearing from her daughter when all around her are surrounded by cards and flowers, so I phone again. She's usually out, celebrating with my brother and his family. But, hell, I try.

I should add, that being a dutiful daughter with a tech savvy Mom and Skype, I speak to my Mom pretty much everyday. Except on South African Mothers' Day, it seems.

Oh well....

PS Happy Mothers' Day Mom!

SA DNA

2007-05-11T13:58:00.000Z

The Good Man returned from a week in South Africa last night. He came bearing gifts - clothes, treats and biltong. This last item is not necessarily your traditional duty-free purchase. It's air dried meat seasoned with salt, coriander and peppercorns. In South Africa it is the snack food of choice. Keep the crisps, but never forget the biltong.

It's best application is as a teething aid for babies. Yes, we give our children large chunks of dry, uncooked meat to chew on when their gums are sore. Unconventional, perhaps, but highly effective.

Anyway, my husband knows his girls well - he brought us 1kg of the stuff. We piled in last night, Bambi and I. She has grown very protective of her bag of meat - I heard her growl when her father got too close.

This morning, when the Good Man went to wake her he promised her a special treat if she ate her breakfast like a good girl. He had a bowl of warmed strawberries in mind.

'Yes,' she said. 'Biltong'. Good girl! its' the South African genes talking!

This also reminds me of a work colleague the Good Man once had - an American of Chinese descent. He came to South Africa on a business trip and could not understand why people kept chuckling when he introduced himself. It had started at passport control and continued on from there.

But then his name was Bill Tong.

A note to Hubris

2007-05-10T07:30:00.000Z

I got my first critical comment yesterday. I suppose, I'm glad to get it out the way. And just to twist the knife in my already bleeding heart, here's what it said:

Whilst your blog is undoubtedly well crafted and funny, I am sad that you are having such a miserable time in Scotland. Obviously this is down to the fact that we Scots suffer from a lunacy, perhaps caused by cerebral hypothermia.

I wish I could apologise wholeheartedly on behalf of this miserable little country. Undoubtedly things are far better in SA. Unquestionably I am proud of a nation which in the last week has stood up against Trident, the War in Iraq, and environmental rape. Personally, I am more passionate about these issues than the temperature.

Please don't waste your time here being miserable and blogging about it. Go out. Meet some people. Learn some things.

Hubris

So, there I was, bracing myself to take it on the chin – I have, after all, been a bit of a moaner – when there came a twist in the tale. Hubris turned out to be a good friend. Well, I use the phrase loosely - she was a good friend yesterday and we'll work our way back there with time. I will not lie, I was really hurt that she aired her grievances on this, my soapbox.

But, as we went through the awkward tribal dance that is making peace, she did make one valid point (well, maybe more than one, but that's as much generosity as I'm prepared to show while the wound remains raw). I have not once mentioned anything of the hospitality, kindness and friendship I have experienced since moving here. So, dear Hubris, here are some of the things I love about my current home:

I live on the best street in Glasgow. It's a row of terraces, which means that my neighbours live one wall away. In my street I am surrounded by people who are always ready with a cup of sugar or an hour of babysitting. People who take my mother sightseeing when she visits and who love my daughter. We share our wine and we share our woes. In my street live my Scottish family. They keep me in laughter. And, today, one kept me in tears.
Glasgow is a city of parks. Beautiful parks with ponds and play areas filled with wee Scottish children who are sweeter for their sometimes unintelligible accent. The parks change with the seasons. Most of all I love Autumn and Spring, periods of transition and promise which we don't really get in South Africa.
I secretly love that my Bambi is developing a Scottish accent all of her own. The way people speak here has a way of adding a twinkle to even the driest dialogue. If she loses the accent, I pray she keeps the twinkle.
The arts are valued. Until now I have lived in countries dealing with such basic socio-political issues that the arts have been a very small blip on the social radar. In South Africa it is extremely hard for even the most talented artists, musicians and performers to eke out a living. Here there is a plethora of theatres and venues, galleries and exhibitions providing to an appreciative and discerning audience. Love it.
Everything is available. Always. Except Soba noodles. I hear they can be hard to find.
The history. Old castles, fortresses and priories, meticulously maintained and just waiting for a visit from Princess Bambi and I.
My friends, who have also become Bambi's friends and their children who have become mine. Together we watch them play, explore and learn and get to do some playing and exploring and learning of our own. I fear the effect the loss of their presence in our lives will have, when the time comes to move on.

There is more, dear Hubris. But maybe that can be for another post.

Can I moan again now?

Bambi meets Elvis

2007-05-08T19:03:00.000Z

My beautiful daughter has just completed a growth spurt. Actually, she may still be mid-spurt but this does not bear thinking about. I cannot afford to go another round at Next until October. I am tall, her father is tall. She's well on her way.

Unfortunately for her about 80% of this growth has taken place in her legs. She's having a bit of trouble figuring out what to do with an extra inch on each appendage. From where I'm standing, though, the results are just too adorable to express.

'She looks a bit like Bambi on the ice,' observed my friend Janet the other day. Which, of course, means she will grow into an elegant gazelle. One day. But please not too soon thanks. I know that looking like roadrunner when you pick up speed might cause a few issues in high school, but at the moment she seems quite pleased to be keeping me in exuberant laughter. We laugh together.

Her blog name, however, has to change. Henceforth the wee 'un will be known as Bambi.

Anyway, with the rain back again I took my own advice and visited some of Glasgow's great indoor sights this weekend. The highlight was watching Bambi serenading Elvis at Kelvingrove. He seemed to quite enjoy her rendition of twinkle, twinkle.

Don't tell!

2007-05-07T13:26:00.001Z

In my former life, before Zambia, Scotland, child and housewifery, I worked in advertisng. I wasn't a creative, but, rather, a strategist. So I didn't do drugs. I say this to clarify the unique approach I have to observing advertising to this day. Well, unique to strategists that is. What I am about to share with you is actually a trade secret. As I no longer work in the trade, I don't care.

Advertisements, carefully watched, can tell you more about yourself and the things you value than an experienced psychoanalyst. An easy example of this would be Playhouse Disney who advertise a range of overpriced plastic toys, home insurance and cosmetics. The toys are targetted at the children who are fully expected to whine at their parents until the object of their desires makes it over the threshold and onto the pile of unused toys in your living room. The home insurance and cosmetics are targetted directly at you, dear Mom. Concerned for your children's futures and desparate to remove the stretch marks? Those advertisers just know that you secretly watch Dora while little Sally reads stories to Baby Annabelle.

But recently I have begun to suspect that Capetonians living in the UK are a distinct target market - all studiously watching the same shows as me. Emerging from a dark, cold winter that tests our understanding of endurance, we are all longing for the light, the mountains, the rocks on Clifton beach, and advertisers know that we are easy prey.

I know, in my heart, not to take this personally. It's practical, really. You see, Cape Town is in the southern hemisphere (I'm hoping that doesn't sound condescending - it isn't meant to), which means that it is enjoying a balmy summer while this island is in the darkest depths of winter. When outdoor filming in the UK is dissolving in 3 metres of rain, the industry in Cape Town is booming with European producers keen to get ads in the can before spring promotions.

Now it is Spring and I can spot a South African in Tesco at 100 yards. Firstly, they're still wearing fleeces, coats, and scarves. But they've also developed a sudden and overwhelming desire to eat Kelloggs for breakfast, with a Muller yoghurt, while they talk on T-Mobile contracts and waft through a mist of Nivea deodorant. I also suspect they may be buying garden furniture from Homebase.

I know it's not personal, but just so as you know dear advertising folk, I may need therapy to get over the homesickness. And I hold you responsible.

Culture club

2007-05-04T15:39:00.000Z

In South Africa, before the first 'free and fair' elections in 1994, new customs had to be accommodated - or maybe I should say old customs. Basically, through years of apartheid, black South Africans had been allowed no freedom of expression and, as protests became legalised in the early 90s, a new code of acceptable political behaviour was written.

One of the more controversial topics at the time was that of 'cultural weapons'. Tribal Africans believe in their right to carry traditional arms as a means of demonstrating their strength when making a political point. They were not (necessarily) to be used as weapons, but rather for show. Think All Blacks doing a hakka before a rugby international and you'll get the idea.

In principle this all sounds fine. That is until you're faced with 3000 angry Zulus wielding pangas and knobkerries. But, I digress. Cultural weapons were (and are), controversially, tolerated in South Africa as long as they do not lead to violence.

So what has this to do with Scotland, you ask. Well, in yesterday's Herald an article caught my eye. A man entered a polling station and in a most unsporting fashion destroyed ballot boxes and informational posters before being dragged off to court. His cultural weapon of choice (and bear in mind he is Scottish now)... the golf club. He was being charged with, and I quote,'breach of the peace, vandalism, possession of an offensive weapon...' An offensive golf club??? In Scotland??? Did it have a Union Jack emblazoned on its grip?

Still, Holyrood had better watch out. The golfers are getting restless!

From the darkness, into the light

2007-05-03T19:12:00.000Z

Glasgow is having a run of truly beautiful weather at the moment. I have actually been seen, over the last two days, wearing (drum roll...) t-shirts. This is code for 'over 20 degrees Celsius'. Anything lower than that and I need a fleece.

I have long suspected that the sun has a completely different purpose this far north of the equator than it does in sub-Saharan Africa. There it exists to give warmth. It drums up business for producers of air conditioners and installers of swimming pools. It heats the air to the point that swimming in the Atlantic seems like a good idea.

Here it exists to provide light. Drumming up business for manufacturers of blackout curtain lining and ... well now I'm stumped. Exactly why do we need broad daylight in the middle of the night?

In Cape Town, in mid-summer, it's dark by 9pm. Perfect. Enough time for a leisurely braai (similar to a barbeque but with less burnt meat and no hamburgers), before lighting a few outdoor candles for a chat before bedtime. But here in mid summer, it's light until after 11pm. I simply don't know what to do with all the extra daylight. It keeps me up. It's like a faulty alarm in my body clock clanging that I should be doing things when, actually, I should be sleeping.

But, in its defence, it does come after months of solar hibernation. 5 hours of daylight through winter is just plain stingy.

The rainbow people of Scotland

2007-05-02T13:04:00.000Z

Today is election day here in Scotland and, while I know I should be providing insightful political commentary, I am feeling the urge to resist. Rather, let's talk about skin colour. Dangerous territory for a white South African, I hear you say. But I'll live on the edge this once.

The vast majority of Scots start off white. I have seen the babies, I have visited the maternity wards, I know this to be true. Then, as I mentioned in a previous post, they start to walk, are taken to a loch in winter in the buff, and they turn pale blue. For the rest of their natural lives they fluctuate between this hue and a particularly fetching shade of puce I like to call 'Scottish salmon', obtained by their insistence on removing all clothing the second the sun shines.

But in recent years some new colours have been welcomed into the summer spectrum. The first comes to you straight from a bottle. Self tan sales rocket in Scotland in early Spring, painting the town orange in preparation for the summer clothing removal session. I suppose you have to forgive the poor wee souls. They don't get to see too much sun and, therefore, can't reasonably be expected to know that nobody turns that colour naturally.

Then there are those who have visited Spain on holiday and have learnt that while burnt orange is a colour, it's not one that the human body assumes. So they frequent one of the thousands of tanning salons around the country. No high street is without one. They go in pale blue and emerge looking like members of the Jackson family. In the '80s.

And to think they call South Africa the Rainbow Nation!

And he's off!

2007-05-02T05:17:00.000Z

Having recently written about my disdain for early mornings I now find myself, at 6 o'clock in the morning, writing a post. I clearly have no spine.

The good man's taxi arrived at 5.15 and I can't get back to sleep. He's off to SA for a week which has the following implications:

The toilet seat will remain down.
The toilet roll, when finished will be promptly replenished.
Leftovers will make it into the fridge.
There will either be no juice or some juice, but not a mere tablespoon left in the bottom of the carton delaying the purchase of some more.
I will consume all the red meat I wish without concern for his runner's physique.
My daughter will consume considerably less chocolate and, therefore not be prone to energy spikes just before bed time.
I can sleep positioned like a snow angel.

And yet I can't wait for next Thursday...

A morning by the pool

2007-05-01T09:52:00.000Z

Before moving here, my impression of Scotland, was that it was a nation of deeply eccentric characters. This opinion was formed by years of watching British television and film, where, let's face it, the Scot is usually the weird uncle. Trainspotting and Billy Connolly did nothing to dispel the myth.

Well, unfortunately, Scottish eccentrics are not to be found on every corner, under every bush, or even loitering along every train line. Rather they are to be found at the Dollan Baths.

Twice a week (more if I can manage) I go to the Dollan olympic pool. There I spend about an hour covering a distance of around 2 kms. In swimming parlance, this is considered long distance. Now you may have heard of the loneliness of the long distance runner. The good man is just such a runner and he combats his loneliness by counting things - lampposts, stripes on the road, trees... you name it he'll know how many. There's not much to count in a pool so I prefer to people-watch.

For some reason people in public pools think that anything under the water is not visible. This is particularly true of those who insist on keeping their hair dry while in the pool. But most serious swimmers wear anti -mist goggles and can actually see better in the water than out. Old Mac in his 1920s full body stocking doing bunny hops across the lanes - crystal clear. And what precisely are Mr. Flarrety and Mrs Cameron doing playing footsie by the step ladder?

On a Friday there is an aqua-robics class - average age 83, entirely female A lithe young bird stands outside the pool bopping away with a pool noodle to 1960's remixes while her octogenarian charges bop away in the pool. I am now under no illusions as to where this ageing malarkey is taking me. It wobbles while it wiggles and occasionally pops out of its DD cup giving the old boys who linger on the outskirts of the class area a frisson of excitement. Men, it would appear, never change.

But the pool has also introduced me to a few real characters (name changed to preserve friendships). Madge who comes to the pool, in a swimming costume built of scaffolding, sporting a Florida tan and with a special cap with earmuffs, only to chat to all of us about how much people splash while they swim (not too sure what they're meant to be doing). Jake who either swims 3 miles or runs 10 every day - he's retired and clearly hasn't figured out what to do with his time. And the lifeguard whose hair changes colour with the seasons (in a range from red to yellow and all shades of orange in between).

And then there's Mike - trying his hardest to keep up with the triathletes - pity his physique is arriving on the next plane. And an endless supply of mums with toddlers saying things like, 'Now Angus, take that duck/whale out of your mouth' and 'No Sally, blowing bubbles underwater should not be called farting!'.

My hour's up in no time.

The Rich Twist

2007-04-29T08:52:00.000Z

We have a few rules in our good home. One of the more sacred is that Mum Does Not Do Mornings. For six days of the week, the Good Man gets up at 7am and takes the wee 'un downstairs for her breakfast. Unfair, you say? Well, we've calculated that it is exactly six times harder for me to get out of bed so, actually, it's a mathematical solution.

However, on Sundays, the rules are reversed and I do the morning run. The wee 'un and I have our own traditions. We eat our oats and then throw on our coats for a bracing stroll to the corner shop for the Sunday Times. We both love this newspaper. It's the only one with enough colourful inserts to allow the wee 'un her own pile of paper to 'read'. She spends her morning creating fabulous stories from the pictures in the magazines, and I mainline coffee until the articles in the main section start to come into focus.

Today's edition included an insert on the Rich List - the 1000 wealthiest people in Britain and Ireland. To make the grade you have to hold a fortune of at least £70 million. It is also sorted into subcategories - young stinking wealthy Brits, loaded lasses, Scottish, Irish, Welsh etc. But my favourite sub-category is the 'Billion pound giveaway', because, as any child of Africa will tell you, no one needs £70 million pounds. And there are some really generous kazillionaires out there donating large chunks of their amassed wealth to a variety of causes throughout the world.

Then the good man emerged from his Sunday snooze. His approach to this insert was different. He handed it directly to the wee 'un with the instruction to look for inspiration. Or a husband.

As long as she shares I will not complain.

The sun is shining, the weather's not hot

2007-04-28T13:19:00.000Z

After months of hibernation, the sun shone today. So we did what the rest of Glasgow did and went for a picnic in Calderglen park. As we shook out the blanket and unpacked our al fresco fare, the wind started to come up. Things went a little pear-shaped from there.

Picnics in the wind are a bit like sex on a beach - a lovely idea but more than just a little uncomfortable. Especially as Scotland has a year-round wind chill factor capable of turning even the slightest breeze into an arctic gale. In addition, and this you must have noticed, wind only ever blows the things you need away from you, while blowing things you don't want straight up your nose. Never have I found a breeze that could slide over the sandwiches, pass the pineapple or nudge over the noodles. Rather they send us charging after packets, cartons and children's toys, requiring us to lift rear from blanket. The blanket then takes off like a kite primed to strike you in the face as you turn back to face your point of departure.

So there I was, trying to persuade the wee 'un to scoff down her sandwiches so that we could go to see the chameleons in the indoor tropical garden (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) when it struck me. I was the only one there still wrapped up in my winter coat. Far from noticing the bracing breeze, the Scots were slapping on the sunscreen and removing layers of clothing.

I have a theory. As soon as Scottish children are old enough to walk they are marched to the nearest loch wearing only wellies and a t-shirt and, armed with a bucket and spade, instructed to find the monster. In the process they slowly turn blue and develop a case of lifelong low level hypothermia making any temperature over 4 degrees celsius feel positively balmy. I think they have actually lost the capacity to feel temperature, so they only have the visuals to go on. It looks sunny. It's hot.

But it's not. I promise!

Freedom?

2007-04-27T15:42:00.000Z

Today is South African Freedom Day. God Bless Africa indeed! It marks the start of a long weekend for most South Africans who will return to work on Wednesday, after Worker's Day. But isn't that how all weekends work? - starting with a promise of freedom and ending with a certainty of work...

Anyway, happy Freedom Day. Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika!

Potted Scottish Politics

2007-04-25T17:39:00.000Z

Next week Scotland goes to the polls and I have a sad confession to make. I have not registered to vote. I know, I know. I come from a country where, in my lifetime, blood was spilt for this most basic right. I have always criticised voter apathy in first world countries and yet, here I am... well... apathetic.

I think it has something to do with not having a particularly clear view on how I would vote if I had registered. The major political issue in this election seems to be around Scottish independence, which requires a bit of a history lesson.

Many years ago Scotland was independent. In 1707, the Act of the Union formally brought Scotland into union with England but was not popular with the vast majority of Scots, who had been painting their faces blue and fighting like heck to prevent this from happening for quite some time. The Act was largely pushed through by wealthy landowners who needed to ensure their businesses were propped up by exports to England.

The inital thinking was that the Scottish would be made English but the descendants of William Wallace were not going to relinquish the right to wear tartan skirts , play bagpipes and consume haggis without a fight. This made more sense to me before I lived here and discovered the following:

Scottish men only wear kilts on special occassions, like at ceremonies. At these functions they often sit on stages with their legs spread in international manly posture, thereby destroying the mystery of what lies under the sporran. It's scary, very scary.
Well played bagpipes are an uplifting and wonderful thing. Most bagpipes, however, are played badly and make a long, high-pitched farting sound at the end of each musical attempt.
Haggis tastes, well, like haggis, which is to say like a bunch of innards mixed with oats.

Anyway, Scottish tradition and pride is a powerful thing and in 1997 a poll in Scotland revealed that 63% of voters still believed themselves to be either totally Scottish or more Scottish than British. 290 years was clearly not sufficient water through the lochs to convince the Scots that they couldn't do it all better themselves. So, in that same year they voted overwhelmingly in favour of devolution.

This was a smart move. The terms were fantastic. They would have their own parliament, which would determine policy on a wide range of issues and have a vote in English matters through representation in the English parliament. Of course, the English would have no representation in the Scottish parliament and would subsidise Scottish services to boot. So Scotland became overrepresented and overfunded. Sweet!

But here begins the problem for me as an outside observer with the potential to vote. I really like Scotland and the Scots and honestly think they're onto a good wicket with things as they are. But to keep the status quo for Scotland one would have to vote for Labour who have recently taken to supporting the American policy of world politics by force. This has not been popular with many Brits and, throughout the UK, Labour's popularity has dropped. So what are the alternatives?

Well, leading in the polls is the Scottish National Party (SNP) whose big manifesto target is Scottish independence. So that would be a vote for normal representaion and underfunding. Hmmmmm...no.

Then there's the Liberal Democrats who are for 'safer streets, local healthcare and the environment'. Frankly, I have no beef with my streets or my healthcare but I do have an environmental issue - the amount of glossy junk mail I've received from the Lib Dem's. At least the Green's print on recycled paper.

And show me an English speaking white middle class South African who went to UCT in the 90s who could put a cross next to the words 'Conservative Party'.

Then, dangling at the bottom of the party political food chain, come the plethora of other alternatives, all making big promises based on little experience and no backing.

So, thanks for giving me a vote, but no thanks. I'll stay home on the 3rd of May and hope that this little corner of Scotland stays just the way it is.

A Good bet

2007-04-24T11:23:00.000Z

I heard a news article this morning which I just loved. Ten years ago this ninety year old man, Alec someoneorother, placed a £10 bet with William Hill that he would live to be 100. They gave him odds of 250:1 and sent him on his way. Well, today is is 100th birthday and William Hill owe him £2500. Nice wee birthday pressie, isn't it?

The story is just fantastic on so many levels. Can you imagine being a fly on the wall ten years ago when they decided the odds. 'Well, Alec. The actuaries all agree, you're in all likelihood going to pop your clogs long before 2007 so we'll give you 250:1'. Or did Alec actually try to push the odds up, coughing and spluttering through the exchange knowing full well that he'd only eat low-fat, sugar-free food and walk around the block every day for the next ten years.

The genius of the bet however is in the win-win for Alec. What would he have cared if he'd lost!?

Things to do in Glasgow when it rains

2007-04-23T15:53:00.001Z

It's raining again. It started on Friday and hasn't really stopped since. With every mizzy little drop I curse the weather gods who have (and this is truly painful) chosen just this moment to shine on Cape Town.

'We've got the most gorgeous sunshine here at the moment' exclaimed the Good Grandmother on Saturday. The Good Brother informs me that his family spent the weekend playing action golf and braaiing at Silvermine. Well fantastic! Jolly happy for you I am!

We stayed in, mainly, with a brief escape to the local deli for lunch and a spirited excursion to a soft play area to give the wee 'un a run around. And watched the London Marathon on TV on Sunday. Which was in London. Where the sun was bloody shining.

But enough moaning. If there's one thing the Scots know how to do its keep themselves entertained while its raining. Observation leads me to believe that some of the more popular activities include getting completely po-eyed at one of the (very) many pubs, playing bingo and spending vast amounts in shopping malls (which often contain bingo halls and pubs). But here are three of my favourite things to do in Glasgow when it rains:

Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum Recently renovated and absolutely magnificent. The collections and displays are really impressive but its the building itself that gets me going. I just feel so small every time I visit. And the wee 'un loves it. Not just for the dinosaurs, elephant and giraffe. No, not even for the interactive shoe museum where she can gleefully try on shoes for hours on end. But mainly for the grand flight of stairs where she can descend like a princess, wave to her adoring fans and talk to the imaginary friends floating above her head.

House for an Art Lover Before moving here I never realised the depth of art and design heritage in Glasgow. I always thought of Glasgow as Edinburgh's less glamorous dockyard mate who swore a lot and wore loud clothes. Yes, I had probably watched a bit too much Billy Connelly but we digress. Presiding over Glaswegian design history is the figure of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. He did a bit of everything - architecture, furniture design, interior design and at House for an Art Lover it all comes together. It was built in the early 1990s, over 60 years after his death and is based on his entry to a German design competition. This is its brilliance. It feels no constraints of tight budgets and planning regulations. It is what it was designed to be - a house for an art lover.

Glasgow Science Centre I'm a sucker for a good interactive science spot - a fact I've discovered since visiting silverfish shaped dome on the banks of the Clyde. Even the wee 'un got to enjoy the echo tunnel and wind tunnel, the illusions in the Alice through the Looking Glass display (now closed) and the magnetic experiments. She didn't have a clue what it was all about mind you but who can resist a ping pong ball that floats on air?

Of course, the sad thing is that I'm thinking about these things now. On Monday.

The Good Man Returns

2007-04-20T17:47:00.000Z

Well, the good man has just returned from a week away on business. This happens quite often (his being away on business, which, by extention, means his return as well, but, oh hell, you know what I mean!). As he really is a good man, this involves gifts.

The wee 'un was quite clear. She wanted something red for her tummy. This arrived in the form of a red box of teddy shaped chocolates. She is delighted and so she should be. They're a swanky Belgian make to which she is fast becoming quite accustomed.

For me things get a bit more complicated. A lot of his travel is pretty boring and involves little more than shuttling between hotel room and office. For those trips I'm not to fazed if all I get is a peck on the cheek. On the whole I'd choose chasing a two year old around town over the hotel grind. What can I say? I like home cooking! But when he goes somewhere really interesting I expect big rewards for staying behind to toddler wrangle.

This week he was in Beirut. Yes, that Beirut. After checking his life insurance, I went online to reassure myself that he was not destined to come home in a box. What a surprise! It looks fascinating. Rich in history, fantastic architecture, fabulous location and apparently quite safe again. What an amazing rejuvenation. So the Clarins counter at duty free did quite well out of him.

Frustratingly, this kind of rejuvenation does not seem to happen in Africa. I really can't think of one African example of post conflict rapid recovery. Zimbabwe was often sited as a success story. During the mid eighties and early nineties, following years of bush war, it was really on the up - strong growth and one of the few African countries developing a strong middle class. Recent history has put paid to that.

I suppose Lebanon had a strong base to work from - a history of success in banking and tourism and strong trading ties to wealthy middle eastern countries willing to pay richly for the skills Lebanon could provide. In Africa skills are still largely imported, often on a short term basis. And, quite often, they're exported too. I shudder to think how many of my school friends left after receiving a top draw tertiary education, albeit one they paid for.

It really is a conundrum. Salaries in Africa are frighteningly low across the board. Unskilled labour is paid pennies and skilled labour is paid a fraction of their counterparts in developed countries. What would you do if you had the means to earn so much more elsewhere? So simply providing education isn't enough. Anyone out there got any answers?

Extreme-ly beautiful Scotland

2007-04-18T13:52:00.000Z

I've just reread my previous posts and noticed that they both seem a bit whiney and pitiful. Actually, I'm not sad at all. Insecure, uncertain, a bit stressed. But not sad. It would be nice to know where I'll be living in 6 months time. But not essential. Glasgow's not so bad.

Take this last weekend for example. We went to the Trossachs. Beautiful lochs, lovely hills, gorgeous forests. The wee 'un had a fine time splashing about in her wellies and crawling over ruins, safe since the 1200s. And the previous weekend we were in Pitlochry in Perthshire. It reminded me a bit of Victoria Falls - except there were no falls (and least none on THAT scale). And it was considerably colder. And all the people were white. Okay, so not so very like Vic Falls after all. But it does have a few adventure centres where you can go white water rafting, abseiling and a few other 'extreme' activities. - which you get at Vic falls too.

I'm not too sure how this 'extreme' trade works here. In southern Africa things can be pretty gung-ho. When I went rafting the Batoka Gorges we were given a briefing, a short how-to intro and then pretty much told not to drown as we threw ourselves out of the raft on the first rapid. I managed to get myself pinned under the raft (very scary). 'Oh! I forgot to mention. Just let the raft slide over you and grab the rope on the side as it goes past.' added the guide as I regurgitated a few litres of the Zambezi. Yes. Helpful.

When we paddled down the Orange River we were allocated canoes and told to go down river feet first if we fell out. Advice on the Breede River included the gem, 'If you see a snake in the water don't try to touch it or hit it with anything.' No problem there.

But here everything is governed by health and safety. So how does that work. Are extreme sports subject to rigorous checks and balances. Not very extreme. I suppose its a bit like rollercoasters. A bit of a thrill but really quite safe. Except for one other thing I've noticed since being here. Not all that many people can swim.

Planet Glasgow

2007-04-17T13:55:00.001Z

You would think that, having grown up in Cape Town - a developed city (although not without its social issues) - Glasgow would be an easier transition than Lusaka. But that really hasn't been the case. It all looks vaguely 'right'. The roads are generally well surfaced and the shops are well stocked (not to be taken for granted after Zambia) but there seems to be a social code that I don't quite understand. Glaswegians are friendly right enough. And the sense of humour is fantastic (Billy Connolly is only unique in that he is famous!). But people don't just drop by. And families don't mingle with other families on the weekend. And the children all know how to play indoors...

Then there's the languge barrier. Catherine Tate did a great skit with David Tennant for Comic Relief where she questioned his authority as an English teacher given that he 'spoke Scottish'. Now there's nothing wrong with Mr Tennant's Scottish. His is of the genteel, clear, don't-we-all-wish-Dr-Who-was-Scottish type of Scottish. But there is another type that comes at you like rapid fire and leaves you taking cover as you wonder whether your mother has just been insulted or whether you're simply in the wrong queue. At these moments I am certain the tardis has landed on Planet Glasgow.

But the thing I find the most unsettling is that people don't say what they mean. There's a niceness that flies in the face of honesty. People seem to avoid confrontation with zeal! But they'll complain vigorously amongst themselves. So I never quite know where I stand. Are people really being nice to me or are they just afraid I'll fight back if they tell me I'm breaking the social laws. I suspect this may have something to do with the soft focus pocket of southside Glasgow where we live. If the newspapers are anything to go by, brutal honesty can be found elsewhere in this city.

Here we go again

2007-04-17T13:33:00.000Z

Well, we left home (Cape Town) in 2002. I drove to Zambia with our dog who was ill at the time. Somehow driving 3000kms through Africa made more sense than putting her on an aeroplane with a heart condition.

We spent three fantastic years there. Travelling to the bush, living the expat dream. Okay, so there were moments of challenge - heat, dust, putse flies, malaria. But our daughter was born there so, all in all, a good time.

And then we moved to Glasgow. Since we've been here my father has passed away, my father-in-law has had a heart attack and we've been cold. Very cold.

And now, as the sun emerges and the weather begins to warm, with promises of lochs to be swum; as islands with romantic names like Skye and Iona beg to be explored, we are preparing to move on again. Such is the life of the nomad.

I'm not sure how long we'll still be in Scotland - could be three months or six. But it's unlikely we'll have another summer here. Please share this one with me.