There is only one person I know who has more passion for English history than me, and that is sofa brother. We both devour books and tv shows, especially on Tudor and Elizabethan times, with a voraciousness that sofa girl finds disturbing. She, on the other hand, couldn’t care less who killed who and what bizarre relations exist within royal lineages.
Month: March 2014
At this time of the year, even in climate blessed California, we are scouring the markets for fruit offerings other than apples and oranges. Eagerly awaiting for peaches and strawberries, we are nonetheless stuck with apples and oranges, unless we settle for fruit shipped from South America, a guarantee of blandness.
By the time you read this I should have been getting up at least 45 mins earlier every morning. I should done 30 minutes of yoga and had a shower before breakfast. I should have dealt with my emails after breakfast and I should have taken Jack for a quick walk around the block. I should have gone to yoga classes at least four times a week and had all day on Saturday off. I should have been drinking hot water and lemon first thing, to clear the skin, and I should have turned the lights out at 10.00pm
None of which has happened.
No, that’s not 100% true. I am getting up earlier. My alarm goes off at 6.15am and I am out of bed by 6.30: 45 mins earlier than before. What was meant to follow hasn’t happened. Instead … I went back to the way it was – only earlier. Get out of bed, feed Jack, brew up some coffee, make some toast and start reading emails. Next thing it is 11.30am and I am still in my dressing gown. And the day has taken a track of its own.
The first two years of my marriage were spent in the suburbs of San Diego, in a sleepy town on the coast, straight out of the Truman Show, where nothing, not even Jim Carrey, ever happened. I came to look at the place, maybe a tad unfairly, as the Californian backwaters or, even more cattily, as one of those beautiful women amazing to look at, but with nothing much going on upstairs.
Constant arrived at my aunt’s door to pay his respects. He and my uncle had struck up a friendship across the garden wall. Constance is a student at Port Elizabeth University and as big a cricket fan as Gary. Nothing unusual in two fellas comparing notes on the weekend’s sport. What made me smile was that Constant was wearing a black blazer with a distinctive badge. One that I recognised because I had seen it on my father’s chest.
Across five decades and a sea change in government – these two men, one in his twenties, the other in his seventies – also had a school in common. A school whose motto is: “Reward is to the Brave”. By wearing that jacket, Constance was paying Gary the highest respect he could: from one Selborne College old boy to another. The next day he was at the funeral. Having altered travel plans home for a long weekend with his parents. He stood at the back of the small chapel. Upright, proud, dignified: representing his school at the passing of one of their own. His voice carried the hymns.
We seem to be working hard at killing off the world’s bees. What with Monsanto and their genetically modified corn fields and governments refusing to outlaw the pesticide that kills all comers. Pretty soon we could be in a situation where there is no natural pollination – just fly by spraying by stealth bombers. Roses don’t smell like roses anymore anyway – and Kenya experiences flower wars on the banks of Lake Naivasha. With the migrant workers that gather there to meet the world’s demand for Valentine roses – being subjected to intimidation and violence. Aah – aren’t we a special species. Turning beauty into darkness wherever we go.