The flat earth and unicorns

I thought the flat earth was an internet meme. One of those stupid conspiracy things.

No-one really believes that the earth is flat. Do they?

And then I was proved wrong.

A teary daughter arrived home from school devastated after a blazing row with a friend in the school yard.

The argument:

Dinosaurs aren’t real.

The Earth is a flat disk.

The sun and moon orbit the flat Earth.

Gravity is not a thing.

And, here’s the kicker…

Unicorns are real.

“That’s okay if you believe that,” said the daughter, “But, I know dinosaurs existed, the Earth is, in fact, a globe, we are not the center of the universe and gravity doesn’t care if you believe in it or not, it’s just there. And… unicorns are mythological creatures. Currently, we have no proof that they exist or fart rainbows.”

To start with, I found it amusing. Until the reality of it dawned on me.

Here is a bright, intelligent young woman whose mind is already closed off to the enormity of the world and universe in which we live.

It’s pointless trying to argue facts against dogma. Every day we discover new things about our world that challenge how we see ourselves and our place in it. Once you discover something, you can’t simply undiscover it just because you don’t like it.

I’d like unicorns to be real, who wouldn’t? If we discover their existence in a multiverse that would be awesome.

However, you can’t believe they exist in an alternate reality if you think that the Earth is a dinner plate.


The poltergeist

My teenager (one of them) is a poltergeist.

Mainly invisible, his presence is only made known by the movement and disappearance of items in the kitchen, a damp towel on the floor and by following the occasional screams from his siblings.

He shuns the light, preferring to live as a denizen of the darkness, rising at night to pilfer snacks and stomp through the house. Sometimes, you may hear the dulcet tones of YouTube, the clacking of a keyboard or the chiming of a WhatsApp notification.

I can only laugh. I was exactly the same. Teenage angst was my middle name. I lived entirely in my room, playing melodramatic, soul searching music and reading Nietsche (why?).

I haunted my home like a wraith, stopping to only to drop pearls of wisdom in front of the ignorant swine that were my parents. (Sorry, parents, but it’s just a metaphor).

They could never understand the depth of emotion that I was feeling, how put upon by the world I was and how it was impossible for them to ever plumb the depths of the trauma of being such a spiritually enlightened teenager.

Now, I erupt in gales of laughter with my long-suffering parents over my utter self-indulgence, but it’s all part of being a teenager.

So, I’ll let him sleep and dwell on the deep existential questions of his time. I’ll stock up on snacks and feed him on demand. Periodically, like some hothouse plant, I’ll drag him into the sunlight and open the curtains of his room.

One day he will emerge like a butterfly and hopefully not as a twinkly vampire with illusions of grandeur.

In all honesty, I’m quiet enjoying it. It makes a difference from his younger years when I was unable to pee by myself.

Of course, these days, the only downside is that his poltergeist senses can sniff out a hidden chocolate bar like a beagle can a fox.

80s Parenting Fail

It’s an 80s celebration at our school

Dress up in 80s style



“What should I wear?” asked my son

“That’s easy!” I replied.


Black skinny jeans, your Dad’s Docs and the Sex Pistols t-shirt.

Put the dog’s chain around your neck and spike up your hair.

You’ll look awesome.


We pulled up at school at this morning.

Everyone did Madonna and Wham.

And my son looks like Sid Vicious.


Parenting fail.

The Life and Times of Me

This is me, playing in the dog bowl. Notice the one button missing on the dungarees. This is important.


Not that the world gives a shit, but in the off chance that my imaginary future grandchildren might, I thought a few stories of their aged Grandmother might raise a few laughs.


The Day the TV Came

Contrary to the opinion of my offspring, I did not emerge fully formed from the womb.

In 1976 something huge happened in sunny South Africa and not just my birth. We got television. Yes, the rest of the world had been enjoying the goggle box since the early 1900s, but here in SA it was regarded at the Devil’s work.

Up until then, the radio was people’s only source of news and entertainment. Even for a long time afterwards, I remember my Grandparents and parents trying to tune into the BBC World News on the radio.

It was also the year of the Soweto Youth Uprising on 16 June. Yes, I was born into white privilege in the middle of the worst of Apartheid. I missed it by 8 days. Since then, I have been permanently late for anything important.

The Great American Disaster

I was not so much a mistake, as an error in judgement and timing. 8 months and a week before my parents were cruising around the Med near Ibiza with some friends and the Great American Disaster.

Spending a lot of time in cramped quarters was not conducive to their remaining friends after the trip was over. Neither was the fact that besides my parents, everyone ditched their partners, each other and picked up the Great American Disaster somewhere near Ibiza and eventually marooned her on a little Greek Island and made good their escape.

My mother knows the moment of my conception, because the couples took turns to use the main stateroom. Also, my mother had forgotten her birth control pills somewhere along the way. And my father had bought her a fertility ring at a market near Athens.

Press Night

All my father asked was for my mother to not go into labour on a Tuesday. He was a journalist and Tuesday was Press Night. Press Night was sacred. You did not mess with Press Night.

Of course, I could have picked any other day of the week to announce my arrival, but in my usual bloody-minded way I picked a Tuesday. It’s the kind of thing I do.

Like Michael McIntyre, the comedian, I looked distinctly Asian around the eyes.

The Macaroni and Cheese Debacle

Back then, my father was a sub editor who worked nights while my mother worked in the Africana Museum during the days. A young wife, she was determined to be a good one. Despite loathing pasta, she knew that my dad loved macaroni and cheese. Every single morning, she made him mac and cheese to eat when he came back from work. Just that. Every single day. Until he cracked. Since then my mother has never made it again and he hasn’t eaten again. Ever.

There were a few more culinary disasters – The Great Haggis Disaster and The Bloody Butchery of the Lamb. Since then she learned a few tricks, one that Haggis was revolting and two, you can actually buy half a sheep and have the butcher dissect it so that you don’t end up crying in a pool of blood waving a carving knife around like a hysterical Valkyrie.

The Hedgehogs and the Irish Setter

It was an idyllic place to be a toddler. There were hedgehogs and chameleons and little purple flowers. We’d head off, me in my pushchair and Alex the Irish Setter into the veld. A short while later the push chair would be filled with prickly rescued hedgehogs that the dog would proudly bring back to us, a few chameleons and an entire garden worth of little purple flowers. I would be made to walk on the return journey.

The Curse

All of that is gone now, replaced by a highway and a plethora of car dealerships. In fact, the day our old house was demolished to make way for another car dealership, my mother cursed it. Ever since no car dealership has lasted long on the site.

The Great Escape

My earliest memory is of escaping my crib. I became quite adept at it. I also was obsessed with having a tail. All my clothes had to have tails sewn on or I wouldn’t wear them.

On the night of the Great Escape I scaled my prison walls outfitted in a knitted, blood red, onesie type thing, but without legs, just a sort of bag around the nether regions. It was outfitted with a rather natty tail made out of one leg of my mother’s stockings. I was rather proud of it. I crawled determinedly along the passage towards the sounds of voices. Over and over again I was caught and returned to captivity. It was really rather soul destroying.

The Shopping Situation

Periodically, my mother would wheel me down to the tiny little village shop. There I would be left outside with dog tied to my carriage while she did the shopping.

Mentioning to her recently that this didn’t seem like the actions of a doting parent, she said, “Well, it wasn’t as if I left you alone. I did leave the dog with you.” This is usually followed by, “When I was a child in wartime England, we were left outside the shops in little rows all bundled up in the cold with bright red cheeks until our mothers had finished having their tea.”

The Broken Leg (or maybe Arm)

This was the time my Grandmother (my mother’s mother) walked through a plate glass window straight into a hole my father had dug for a tree (or perhaps it was a Granny trap?). She was carrying a tea tray and didn’t break a cup, although she did break her leg (or it might have been an arm?).

This had the unfortunate consequence of Granny staying a lot longer with us than either of my parent’s had the patience for. It didn’t endear me to her that I found physical comedy incredibly entertaining and couldn’t stop laughing every time I saw her.

The Random Kidnapper

There was the time a guy tried to steal the car and passed out drunk in the backseat. My furious father drove to the police station and insisted on his arrest. During this tirade, the drunk would-be robber woke up and interjected. Apparently, he was walking down the road, quite normally, when suddenly a red-faced, boxers and dressing gown wearing, mad white man had leapt out of the greenery and bundled him into the car. My father shook his head and went home for coffee with a stiff shot of whiskey.

The Great Mud Pie Disaster

My nanny was a wonderful woman named Joyce. She also had a baby. Her baby was gorgeous. She wore white lacy baby things and never ever got them dirty. I attracted dirt. I was entranced by dirt. Dirt was my happy place. My father would arrive home to find me bum in the dog bowl covered in mud. Two minutes beforehand I had been on my seventh change of clothes for the day. He despaired for me.

This love of dirt led to The Great Mud Pie Disaster. I spent a happy afternoon carting buckets of mud into my parent’s pristine (and out of bounds) bathroom, where I mixed up a veritable feast of mud pies. And then I hid. I knew full well that things had gotten of hand and that I needed to make myself very very scarce. I tried to get rid if the evidence at the garden hose, which just made everything worse. I sat in a puddle and knew that I was never getting away with it. I was done for.

Myself and my trusty doll, Rosie Poppet, were in for a hiding. I just knew it.

We waited in silent desperation waiting for the yell of shock and horror. It never happened. Somehow, Joyce had made it all disappear. At least, it was never mentioned. It just didn’t happen. I was certain the axe would fall for years and eventually admitted it only at about the age of 25.

The Day My Father Shot Me

My final and most traumatic memory of the house was The Day My Father Shot Me. My father has a gift. Each and every time we moved to a new house he developed either a physical injury that precluded him from lifting anything or he disappeared on an emergency business trip.

On the occasion we left the house of my birth, he had slipped a disk and ensconced himself on the floor or the empty nursery entertaining his darling daughter while my mother dealt with the minutiae of moving.

An Aged Relative had at some point bestowed on my father a tiny silver pop gun. It went bang. Nothing came out of it. It just went bang. He thought that I think it was cool.

He pointed it my direction and pulled the trigger. Things did not go as expected. I had a meltdown. I ran on my short, stubby legs screaming to my mother yelling, “Daddy tried to kill me! Daddy tried to kill me!” My mother and the moving men looked on in horror as my father limped out of the house brandishing the small, silver, not-quite a revolver.

The Button and the Nose and the Mustache

Once upon a time I was messing around in the back seat while my parents had a complicated conversation in the front. There was no such thing as a car seat, or for that matter, seat belts in the back. It was a heady and dangerous time.

Without much in the way of entertainment, I occupied myself with the buttons on my spiffing dungarees. This was funny, until one fell off.

“Mummy. Mummy. MUMMY!”

“Hmm, what?”

“My button fell off.”

“Well, put it somewhere safe.”

Somewhere safe for a small child is quite different to somewhere safe for an adult. I put it in the safest place I could think of. My left nostril. As soon as it was up there I had a sneaky suspicion this was not the somewhere safe, my mother had been thinking of. She could be quite prosaic in her thinking and probably meant a pocket or something.

So, I kept my mouth shut, wore the one buttoned dungarees and the button stayed safe up my schnoz. Of course, eventually my nanny became concerned that my blocked nose was not the result of a naturally occurring virus.

A visit to the doctor was duly made after hours in parental panic. I honestly don;t see how waiting for the morning was not considered. It had been there happily for months by this time and few more hours wasn’t going to hurt.

I’ll tell you what did hurt. Getting it out. It was excruciating. The doctor had a mustache and wielded his picking-stuff-out-of-noses tools with maximum agony in mind.

Several painful hours later, with a bloody and swollen nose I was button free and deathly afraid of all men with mustaches.

I completely acknowledge my mustache bias. I still don’t trust men with facial fungi. They have something to hide.

And this was how my life began. A comedy of errors that just keeps giving.

Enough with the smiling through the rain

Be true to yourself

This has got to stop

No-one is happy all the time.

It’s like a unicorn on the hot/crazy matrix.

It doesn’t exist.

So, why is it not okay to not be happy some of the time?

Why do we expend so much energy creating completely fake personas to fool everyone else that we’ve got our shit together and our ducks are waddling off in a neat little row.

We post carefully cropped and filtered pics on Instagram of our beautiful baking that don’t show the icing smeared on the counter, or the eggs we broke.

And while we’re judging ourselves to impossible Kardashian standards we somehow believe everyone else has it made.

Spoiler alert. We don’t.

Not even the most perfectly put together person feels like they’ve cracked the secret of adulting.

Without the contouring and team of stylists, the Kardashians probably don’t either.

So, why can’t the rest of us just be real and drop the rigour mortis smile once in a while and just be real?

It’s okay to be depressed.

It’s okay to feel a little lost.

It’s okay to be happy when you are.

It’s not okay to pretend to be when you’re not.

It’s okay to make a change no matter what your age.

It’s okay to be real with your tribe.

That’s what they’re there for.

Just like you’ll be there for them.

Don’t worry about letting them down by not being a bubbly little ray of sunshine.

They’re probably worrying about why they can’t be more like you.

Everyone has a few little rain clouds pissing down on them and the occasional bolt of lightning that splits the sky.

That’s why we’re human.

I asked a Wise Woman Aged 12 what she thinks the most important thing in life to know is.

“Don’t turn yourself into what you think people want you to be. Turn yourself in to someone you want to be.”

I’m 42 and I don’t have the answer to life, the universe and everything, but my daughter is sure helping me out.




Less drama?


Clearly never met my boys.

Halfway through a meeting my WhatsApp starts having a seizure.

I apologise, check the frantic messages and excuse myself.

“I’m sorry, there seems to be family emergency.”


It went like this:


Child 2 makes an off-colour joke.

Child 1 is not impressed.

Child 2 laughs.

Child 1 doesn’t.

Child 1 punches Child 2.

Child 2 arms himself with scissors.

Child 1 shoves Child 2 into the bathroom.

Child 1 locks the door.

Boy Mom rushes home expecting to find a body.

Boy Mom finds Child 1 and Child 2 playing video games. Together.

Boy Mom pours herself a G&T.

Jack and Jill went up the hill…


Falling down the stairs

Jack and Jill went up the hill…

Except that his name wasn’t Jack, it was James. And her name wasn’t Jill either. And the pail was a cup of coffee.

Okay, aside from the tumbling down the hill, our stories don’t have much more in common.

Perhaps, ‘Pride comes before a fall’, would be more accurate.

I was on top of my morning. I was up in the dark to take Firstborn to training. I was even dressed and not in my pyjamas. I don’t know why I bothered.

I strode down the dark stairs to the garage toting my cellphone in one hand and my brand-new coffee cup in the other.

And then I wasn’t.

Then, like Alice, I fell.

There was no white rabbit, but a lot of slow motion.

I could have put my coffee cup down on the way.

I didn’t realise just how many steps there were, until I hit each one on the way down.

Every single, bone jarring one.

I ended up, a crumpled heap, in the small space between the last step and the door.

Firstborn leapt lightly like a gazelle down to where I lay in numb humiliation.

“Are you okay? Are you okay? Mom!”


And the dog quivered in laughter.

He got me back on my feet, rescued the cellphone and I got into the car and drove him to training.

And the trainer overslept and didn’t arrive.


By the time we got home again, my knee looked like some distorted genetics experiment and my leg had locked up like a mannequin.

The skinny jeans are now artfully ripped in such a way that if I bought them like that, I would’ve paid twice the amount.

I was peeled out of their remains and got back into my lounge pants, aka my pyjamas, and a pair of fluffy slippers.

And then I went to work.

In my PJs and my fluffy slippers.

Too a client presentation.

I had a severe case of FML.

Limping upstairs to our tame chiropractor and sports rehab office, a lovely young lady said she’d take a look.

I’ve now reached an age when I could have given birth to the medical professionals treating me.

This sweet girl, with her dewy fresh skin and caring smile has the hands of a demon lord.

I didn’t cry when I fell down the stairs, but I cannot lie, my eyes did prickle as she kneaded around my knee cap.

Anyhow she strapped my knee up with neon pink tape that looks quite jazzy and sent me home saying “Avoid stairs and don’t drive.”

I looked at her with the eyes of middle-aged mother of three and thought about saying something like, “You don’t have children do you? One day you’ll know that lying with your leg up, not driving and avoiding stairs in a house built on the side of a mountain with three teenagers running wild is about as impossible as teaching pigs to fly.”

But I bit my tongue and just nodded.

Then I went home, dug out Great-Granny’s cane and hobbled up the stairs to make dinner.







The Law of the Spoons




Henceforth I shall set down the law of the spoons.

Spoons are governed not by man or God, but by some ethereal metaphysical force.

So nameth I this force – Spoon Matter.

Thou hast laid 12 spoons on thine kitchen drawer.

Within 72 hours only 7 spoons layeth in thine drawer.

Three spoons layeth not in the dishwasher, the sink or in the dusty corners of the house.

The spoons hath disappeared like ships into the mist.

Wherefore art thou spoons?

Days turn to weeks and the spoons in thine drawer dwindle to 4.

In this desert thou returns to the oasis of spoons and bargain for 8 new spoons.

Thou layeth the new spoons in thou drawer.

Within 24 hours thou spoons hath spawned and thou hast more spoons then thou hast ever stirred.

Whenceforth did they come?

It matters not, for they are passing fancies merely meant to lure thou into a false sense of complacency.

Within the passing of 14 days thou shalt have one singular spoon with which to stir.





Panic at the Pep Parade

Panic illustration
From Ravishly with thanks to Jenni Berrett for her brilliant article on panic attacks.


I was really adulting like a bozza today!

I had my power suit on.

My boots were walking.

I was killing it.

Until, I wasn’t.


Until a pigeon pooped on my pep parade.


A clammy hand fastened its grip around my throat.

Another clenched around my heart.

My breath was stolen by some invisible ghoul.

My eyes began blinking like a possessed strobe light.

I wanted to vomit.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to curl up and die.


I wanted someone to notice.

To just tell me things were going to be alright.

To just breathe.

That it would pass.

That I had this.


I wanted no-one to notice.

I wanted no-one to see how hard I was pretending.

I wanted to disappear.


And then came the crushing guilt.

Who the hell am I to be anxious, to panic?

I have a wonderful, privileged life.

I have a great job, a wonderful family, a beautiful house.

Who the hell do I think I am?

Millions of people deal with huge stresses every day, make life and death choices.

My husband calmly negotiates multinational deals on top of dealing with all the minutiae of our household – bond payments, school meetings, car repairs and all the other stuff.


I can’t buy groceries.

Let’s put that into perspective.


Living with anxiety is a silent nightmare.

Think Pennywise in every storm drain, around every corner, in every shadow waiting to make you come and play.

It makes no sense.

It is not rational.

It is desperately lonely and isolating.

I whisper over and over, “I am not alone in this. I am not alone.”


So, if you, like me survive living with some form of anxiety or panic disorder, repeat after me: “I am not alone.”