After a restless, rehearsal-filled weekend of hating the world, I came to work on Monday to face a pile of paperwork and listen to the endless stream of unhappy callers. By 9am, I was on to the 40th caller and so very over it. Whilst humming along to one of Algoa’s finest tunes, “It’s just another manic Monday, wish it was Sunday…”, the phone rang for the 41st time. I picked it up reluctantly. It was not a query, however, this man was from the police, the Uitenhage Police.
Warrant Officer Smith*: Good morning, I am looking for Francis, Philippa Jayne?
Me: Yes sir, I mean, Officer.
Warrant Officer Smith: I think we have found your car.
Me: Oh my goodness.
Warrant Officer Smith: But it is in Uitenhage.
Me: Where?
Warrant Officer Smith: We found it in Motherwell. And we know who the thief is. He ran away.
Me: What does the car look like?
Warrant Officer Smith and his Uitenhage men had indeed found my car (later identified by the owner-on-paper, Jayne Turner) in Motherwell minus a petrol cap, cubby hole and a few other accessories. And he said that even though they had done a good job of “messing up” the ignition, I “could probably drive it again one day”.
Now this doesn’t sound much like excellent news but the fact is: SAPS members found my car in two and a half days. Mom was given the job of driving to Uitenhage to identify the Blue Bomber. She recognised her immediately despite the changed number plates and muddy interior. The costumes are long-gone though and the costume hire ladies are furious! Hopefully, I will be able to claim a little money from insurance and offer a token gesture.
Now will follow the lengthy process of insurance assessment and claims to have the car fixed. It should be an expensive experience. But I digress from my praise of the police. When I walked out of the office on Friday afternoon, I phoned my mother who phoned stepdad, Brian, who phoned the police. At 5:30pm, the Walmer Police had arrived at my home to take a statement. We all discussed the slim chance of ever finding the car whole. Surely, it had been stolen for its parts? The two Walmer officers referred me to Humewood Police Station because my claim would be processed more quickly.
I reported the theft at 10:30am on Saturday morning. By lunchtime, I had been texted a case number and confirmation that the theft had been circulated in police circles. That evening, an administrator phoned to check if I had received my case number and gave me some contact details of the Warrant Officer in charge of the investigation. On Monday, my car was found. And the thief has been caught. He is probably sitting in Uitenhage jail.
A pretty efficient process, if you ask me. I was lucky. And my belief in South African society had edged back up the ladder just a smidge.
*The Warrant Officer's name has been changed for obvious safety reasons.
Thursday 28 October 2010
Monday 25 October 2010
Goodbye to my friend the Leopard
My little Opel Kadett was stolen on Friday somewhere between 07:50 and 16:30 outside my workplace. I walked out after work to find it gone.
Besides the obvious financial inconvenience (very limited insurance and R5,000 worth of hired costumes in the boot), it is the sentimental value of the car which is important and the most upsetting. My sense of security has been violated.
The Blue Bomber, or the Blue Leopard as it is more affectionately known, would be 21 next year, an awe-some feat for any car. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? I get stopped at traffic lights, petrol stations, shopping centre parking lots and cricket grounds by funny-looking creatures all offering to buy my little Opel: “How much you want, lady?”
I was driving home the other night around 9pm. Whilst waiting at a red traffic light in a not-so-nice part of town, someone starting hooting loudly and very close to me. I turned to the car next door, a 4x4 Isuzu monstrosity, to see a man gesturing wildly out of his window at what seemed to be my tyres. I simply couldn’t be sure. I ignored him. But the robot remained as red as ever.
Next, there was a tapping at my window. Now, I was scared. I looked to see the same jolly man shouting through my passenger window: “You have such a ‘kewl kar’ lady. Come on, how much you want?” I left tyre marks when I sped off with the green light, leaving the 4x4 and the scary man in my dust.
I know how cool and reliable my car is, dude. That is why I am still driving it!
I am reminded of the most recent Tracker advert. A little baby is rescued from the back from the back of a stolen car, thanks to Tracker of course and she, in turn, is afforded a lifetime of memories. I, too, have an entire timeline of good and bad times in the bomber imprinted in my mind.
When the car still belonged to Granny Pixie, I remember traveling in the backseat with the smelly dogs from Port Elizabeth to Port Alfred for holidays at the beach shack and being dropped off at tennis tournaments in the December holidays. Granny was always a sophisticated smoker and I remember her having the odd puff in the Blue Bomber. On rainy days, when the car leaks a little, one smells the faint odour of cigarettes and times gone by. Once, a lighter, left on the dashboard, exploded from the heat. My Aunt Pat thought we were being shot at and made my brother and I duck under the seats.
We have always had at least one bomber running in the Turner household. When I was just a wee babe, Brian had a little red backfire of a machine, Mom had a mustard-coloured Escort when we were in Swaziland (I have forgotten to ask how it got from Port Elizabeth to Swaziland and survived for a couple years after that) and then followed the Toyota Cresida, the best car we ever had. Fifteen years later, the Cresida was still our family car carrying around the rather large five children. In my first year at Rhodes, tri-varsity was being held in PE. The Cresida bomber was in the garage for repairs, and so Brian made use of the Blue Bomber to fetch four of my friends on his way through Grahamstown to join me and the festivities at NMMU.
When I obtained my driver’s license (some people are still shocked that this was allowed to happen), I was permitted to take the Bomber with me to Rhodes when I moved into a house share. This resulted in a little extra freedom; Lillies trips to the beach when I should have been studying for exams, trips to PE via Nanaga farm stall for tennis league and watching cricket at Manley Flats. I coached tennis at St Andrews during my Rhodes career. The boys used to fight over who could have a lift back to hostel in the ‘limousine’, which was soon re-named by them as the Blue Leopard, stealthy as she was quick.
In February of 2008, Dad and I made the trip to Stellenbosch in the Bomber. I was off to complete an Honours course. It was 35 degrees Celsius. The Bomber obviously has no aircon; we sweated the whole 12 hour trip. But the Bomber nearly died too. We thought she would definitely overheat. We stopped regularly for re-hydration breaks for all three of us. At Stellenbosch University, I added hundreds of fantastic Blue Leopard moments to my memory bank; early morning drives to Jonkershoek, picnics on the river, trips to Cape Town with my new flat mate and getting very stuck in the traffic after a free Celine Dion concert.
And over the last two years, the Bomber, in a new era, has been carrying my brother Tristan to school and to varsity, to Barneys and to tennis, to friends and to fun. Man, we were all hoping she would last another ten years. There is no way we can afford another car. But more than that, I will miss the Blue Leopard for all the wonderful memories. She has just always been there.
Really wish I’d had Tracker…
Besides the obvious financial inconvenience (very limited insurance and R5,000 worth of hired costumes in the boot), it is the sentimental value of the car which is important and the most upsetting. My sense of security has been violated.
The Blue Bomber, or the Blue Leopard as it is more affectionately known, would be 21 next year, an awe-some feat for any car. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? I get stopped at traffic lights, petrol stations, shopping centre parking lots and cricket grounds by funny-looking creatures all offering to buy my little Opel: “How much you want, lady?”
I was driving home the other night around 9pm. Whilst waiting at a red traffic light in a not-so-nice part of town, someone starting hooting loudly and very close to me. I turned to the car next door, a 4x4 Isuzu monstrosity, to see a man gesturing wildly out of his window at what seemed to be my tyres. I simply couldn’t be sure. I ignored him. But the robot remained as red as ever.
Next, there was a tapping at my window. Now, I was scared. I looked to see the same jolly man shouting through my passenger window: “You have such a ‘kewl kar’ lady. Come on, how much you want?” I left tyre marks when I sped off with the green light, leaving the 4x4 and the scary man in my dust.
I know how cool and reliable my car is, dude. That is why I am still driving it!
I am reminded of the most recent Tracker advert. A little baby is rescued from the back from the back of a stolen car, thanks to Tracker of course and she, in turn, is afforded a lifetime of memories. I, too, have an entire timeline of good and bad times in the bomber imprinted in my mind.
When the car still belonged to Granny Pixie, I remember traveling in the backseat with the smelly dogs from Port Elizabeth to Port Alfred for holidays at the beach shack and being dropped off at tennis tournaments in the December holidays. Granny was always a sophisticated smoker and I remember her having the odd puff in the Blue Bomber. On rainy days, when the car leaks a little, one smells the faint odour of cigarettes and times gone by. Once, a lighter, left on the dashboard, exploded from the heat. My Aunt Pat thought we were being shot at and made my brother and I duck under the seats.
We have always had at least one bomber running in the Turner household. When I was just a wee babe, Brian had a little red backfire of a machine, Mom had a mustard-coloured Escort when we were in Swaziland (I have forgotten to ask how it got from Port Elizabeth to Swaziland and survived for a couple years after that) and then followed the Toyota Cresida, the best car we ever had. Fifteen years later, the Cresida was still our family car carrying around the rather large five children. In my first year at Rhodes, tri-varsity was being held in PE. The Cresida bomber was in the garage for repairs, and so Brian made use of the Blue Bomber to fetch four of my friends on his way through Grahamstown to join me and the festivities at NMMU.
When I obtained my driver’s license (some people are still shocked that this was allowed to happen), I was permitted to take the Bomber with me to Rhodes when I moved into a house share. This resulted in a little extra freedom; Lillies trips to the beach when I should have been studying for exams, trips to PE via Nanaga farm stall for tennis league and watching cricket at Manley Flats. I coached tennis at St Andrews during my Rhodes career. The boys used to fight over who could have a lift back to hostel in the ‘limousine’, which was soon re-named by them as the Blue Leopard, stealthy as she was quick.
In February of 2008, Dad and I made the trip to Stellenbosch in the Bomber. I was off to complete an Honours course. It was 35 degrees Celsius. The Bomber obviously has no aircon; we sweated the whole 12 hour trip. But the Bomber nearly died too. We thought she would definitely overheat. We stopped regularly for re-hydration breaks for all three of us. At Stellenbosch University, I added hundreds of fantastic Blue Leopard moments to my memory bank; early morning drives to Jonkershoek, picnics on the river, trips to Cape Town with my new flat mate and getting very stuck in the traffic after a free Celine Dion concert.
And over the last two years, the Bomber, in a new era, has been carrying my brother Tristan to school and to varsity, to Barneys and to tennis, to friends and to fun. Man, we were all hoping she would last another ten years. There is no way we can afford another car. But more than that, I will miss the Blue Leopard for all the wonderful memories. She has just always been there.
Really wish I’d had Tracker…
Thursday 15 July 2010
A bientot Angleterre - 3 July 2010
I am at my last caring job, back where it all began, in Swanley, Kent. It seems fitting that my caring experience started and ended here. I remember arriving in January; cold, petrified and bewildered. And rightfully so, it was awful. I have now returned feeling those same emotions because I knew what was in store for me, 18 days of hellish moments and unhappy people. I am lucky though that my outlook has shifted somewhat. That was my first caring job and I was worried that all my bookings would be that bad. This is my last caring job (for, hopefully, a very long time) and I know it cannot get any worse.
The weather is surprisingly good. Once again, the Wimbledon Championships haven't needed to use their 2 billion pound roof because of rain (touch wood) and people, generally, are in a happier mood. I have exactly 27 days left in England. Not much time when one subtracts my working days. I did not think I would be sad about leaving, but I am. I realise this is the "end of an era", my gap year has come to an end. It is now time to grow up, to hit the real world, to leave the raucousness of young life behind me. Well, maybe not quite yet. We shall have to see. Most of all, now that I have tasted a bit of travel, I am so hungry for more. I am hoping to get to Ireland to visit family friends from Durban days in Cork and then head over to Dublin for a day of sightseeing and Guinness drinking with an old Rhodes friend (feel like I have to go to Dublin and sample the true Guinness after my one-week stint with the Guinness family at Biddesden House in Andover in April; 36 wooden floors to polish, etc). And then my travels will be over.
I watched Ghana play an amazing World Cup match last night, and I like the rest of the world except, I think, the Uruguan nation, was desperately urging them on. The commentators on ITV 1 here in Britain didn't even pretend to be neutral, everyone was dreaming of an African win. It would have been amazing...but then Idiot Extraordinaire Suarez had to devastate us all. He should be suspended and heavily fined for putting an end to what could have been a dreamlike finish. I hope he had plenty of security last night.
It has been such an up and down year. I look forward to being in the same place for a couple of months and seeing some familiar faces on a daily basis. Most of all, I long to feel South African again, and even though I have missed the World Cup, there seems to much positivity over there. I hope it will continue for some time to come.
Fra
Things I will miss about England:
The five days of glorious weather after a forever of Winter;
The postal system;
Perhaps the public transport (ok, definitely the public transport);
Easy access to Europe (if you're not on a South African passport or already have a Schengen Visa);
The great British friends I have made;
And the South Africans I would probably never have met and have grown to love;
144 Florence Road and the memories;
Wimbledon Broadway;
Walkabout (never thought I'd say this! Damn!);
Walking past the All England Club (the home of the Wimbledon Championships);
Being just a number (in other words, whoever you want to be at any given time);
The West End, so close but yet so far;
Covent Garden;
Pre-packaged everything;
Argos;
Savannahs and Snoggys;
Waterstones;
Hyde Park;
the walking everywhere you go;
The pubs (one on every corner). Always a pub...
The weather is surprisingly good. Once again, the Wimbledon Championships haven't needed to use their 2 billion pound roof because of rain (touch wood) and people, generally, are in a happier mood. I have exactly 27 days left in England. Not much time when one subtracts my working days. I did not think I would be sad about leaving, but I am. I realise this is the "end of an era", my gap year has come to an end. It is now time to grow up, to hit the real world, to leave the raucousness of young life behind me. Well, maybe not quite yet. We shall have to see. Most of all, now that I have tasted a bit of travel, I am so hungry for more. I am hoping to get to Ireland to visit family friends from Durban days in Cork and then head over to Dublin for a day of sightseeing and Guinness drinking with an old Rhodes friend (feel like I have to go to Dublin and sample the true Guinness after my one-week stint with the Guinness family at Biddesden House in Andover in April; 36 wooden floors to polish, etc). And then my travels will be over.
I watched Ghana play an amazing World Cup match last night, and I like the rest of the world except, I think, the Uruguan nation, was desperately urging them on. The commentators on ITV 1 here in Britain didn't even pretend to be neutral, everyone was dreaming of an African win. It would have been amazing...but then Idiot Extraordinaire Suarez had to devastate us all. He should be suspended and heavily fined for putting an end to what could have been a dreamlike finish. I hope he had plenty of security last night.
It has been such an up and down year. I look forward to being in the same place for a couple of months and seeing some familiar faces on a daily basis. Most of all, I long to feel South African again, and even though I have missed the World Cup, there seems to much positivity over there. I hope it will continue for some time to come.
Fra
Things I will miss about England:
The five days of glorious weather after a forever of Winter;
The postal system;
Perhaps the public transport (ok, definitely the public transport);
Easy access to Europe (if you're not on a South African passport or already have a Schengen Visa);
The great British friends I have made;
And the South Africans I would probably never have met and have grown to love;
144 Florence Road and the memories;
Wimbledon Broadway;
Walkabout (never thought I'd say this! Damn!);
Walking past the All England Club (the home of the Wimbledon Championships);
Being just a number (in other words, whoever you want to be at any given time);
The West End, so close but yet so far;
Covent Garden;
Pre-packaged everything;
Argos;
Savannahs and Snoggys;
Waterstones;
Hyde Park;
the walking everywhere you go;
The pubs (one on every corner). Always a pub...
Thursday 1 July 2010
My Whirlwind trip of Europe - 2 to 31 May
Hallo, Gutentag, Ciao, Bonjourno, Salut!
Greetings to all of you from a little place called Copthorne. No, wait...greetings from a very busy road in the middle of nowhere near a little place called Copthorne near a town called Crawley wherein lies a garage, one little shop, an ATM and a pub, of course. Always a pub. Once again, I find myself in the land of little reception, no internet and a grumpy elderly woman.
BUT, I am willing to do much more housework and cooking of three-course meals and smelly dog walking after my May month. I took off 28 days from caring and went off by myself on the trip of a lifetime. I made a whole bunch of new friends in the 18 days of my Contiki tour, had many a good 'jol' and saw some spellbinding, dreamlike, movie-making, life-changing places. I could not be more grateful for the experience truly.
After the 18 days of sleep deprivation, constant rain (it rained every day), illness (Contiki cough) and pure delirium, I made my way to Gatwick airport in a huge flurry only for my flight to be delayed for an hour. I was off to Geneva to visit Mom's life-long friend and former tennis partner, Lucille Rijs, and her family at their lovely home on the French/Swiss border. I have been trying to make this trip for some time but getting a visa was a nightmare and then volcanic eruptions and various non-refundable cancelled tickets meant I was only able to squeeze the trip in just after my Contiki tour. The Rijs' are based in Chens-sur-Leman, France but Jan works in Geneva, Switzerland.
It is amazing how easily we moved from one country to the other. The Rijs' really spoilt me; I caught up on much-needed sleep, saw some beautiful places, had a weird but wonderful night out with Lara, Jean and Chantelle in Geneva and even spoke some good French. Well, 'good' may be taking it a step too far...but at least I spoke. The lake is quite spectacular, especially when the weather is good. The weather was very kind to me after the 18 days of rain as the sun shone all six days of my stay. Lucille even dragged me off to the tennis courts...twice. I played poorly but thoroughly enjoyed it and I am looking forward to hitting the courts on my return to SA in just under two months time.
On the 27th May, I made my last pitstop (with cousin Garyth Turner) to Erlangen, Germnay, to Franconian territory and the site of 'Berg', a local beer festival. And what a surprise, a different London airport, another delay. And we ended up missing our connecting flight in Munich. Fortunately, we could hop on a train to Nuremberg where Robs Clarkson picked us up. Nicknamed 'Berg' because the two-week festival happens on a little mountain, the event is VERY local and a well-kept secret. Garyth and I must have been one of three tourists there (all in all). We stayed with Clarksons, cousins of our cousins (make sense?) in the little village of Dechsendorf, only a short busride from the Berg. Let me remind you that I am now at Day 25 of 28 and the body is feeling it somewhat. Garyth has been dutifully working and behaving in London but the look on his face as we arrive at the festival is one of fear and knowing of what is to come. We had a glorious time with Robs, Andrew and the family (and the locals). Again, no sleep or rest from the party. We did not understand anyone, no one understodd us but we left with many a friend and the beer was SUPERB!
We watched the Super 14 on the Saturday and what a day for South African rugby and for the nation herself. We walked around in our SA rugby jerseys, blowing a vuvuzela and singing the National Anthem. Everyone thought we were nuts, we thought we were the coolest people on earth, if not the proudest. I nearly killed Andrew during the evening though as he would not stop blowing the vuvuzela but he woke up with a swollen upper lip the next day and paid his price.
A year of crappy jobs, weather, crashed computers, ol' grumps and washing one million soiled sheets by hand has been heavily outweighed by life experience, new friendship, unforgettable memories and self belief.
I am so sad that I will miss the World Cup. I watched England arrive in Rustenburg to an unforgettable welcome. I saw Piers Morgan's World Cup special about what it has done for the country, how the singer Nelson Mandela had chosen for the opening ceremony died from meningitis only weeks before realising his dream, I read Desomond Tutu's articles in the international newspapers. Pride, patriotism and pure contentment overwhelms me when I see what can happen, what good there is in the world along with the evil and sadness. So, viva South Africa, viva! May it be the best, most unique World Cup ever.
Greetings to all of you from a little place called Copthorne. No, wait...greetings from a very busy road in the middle of nowhere near a little place called Copthorne near a town called Crawley wherein lies a garage, one little shop, an ATM and a pub, of course. Always a pub. Once again, I find myself in the land of little reception, no internet and a grumpy elderly woman.
BUT, I am willing to do much more housework and cooking of three-course meals and smelly dog walking after my May month. I took off 28 days from caring and went off by myself on the trip of a lifetime. I made a whole bunch of new friends in the 18 days of my Contiki tour, had many a good 'jol' and saw some spellbinding, dreamlike, movie-making, life-changing places. I could not be more grateful for the experience truly.
After the 18 days of sleep deprivation, constant rain (it rained every day), illness (Contiki cough) and pure delirium, I made my way to Gatwick airport in a huge flurry only for my flight to be delayed for an hour. I was off to Geneva to visit Mom's life-long friend and former tennis partner, Lucille Rijs, and her family at their lovely home on the French/Swiss border. I have been trying to make this trip for some time but getting a visa was a nightmare and then volcanic eruptions and various non-refundable cancelled tickets meant I was only able to squeeze the trip in just after my Contiki tour. The Rijs' are based in Chens-sur-Leman, France but Jan works in Geneva, Switzerland.
It is amazing how easily we moved from one country to the other. The Rijs' really spoilt me; I caught up on much-needed sleep, saw some beautiful places, had a weird but wonderful night out with Lara, Jean and Chantelle in Geneva and even spoke some good French. Well, 'good' may be taking it a step too far...but at least I spoke. The lake is quite spectacular, especially when the weather is good. The weather was very kind to me after the 18 days of rain as the sun shone all six days of my stay. Lucille even dragged me off to the tennis courts...twice. I played poorly but thoroughly enjoyed it and I am looking forward to hitting the courts on my return to SA in just under two months time.
On the 27th May, I made my last pitstop (with cousin Garyth Turner) to Erlangen, Germnay, to Franconian territory and the site of 'Berg', a local beer festival. And what a surprise, a different London airport, another delay. And we ended up missing our connecting flight in Munich. Fortunately, we could hop on a train to Nuremberg where Robs Clarkson picked us up. Nicknamed 'Berg' because the two-week festival happens on a little mountain, the event is VERY local and a well-kept secret. Garyth and I must have been one of three tourists there (all in all). We stayed with Clarksons, cousins of our cousins (make sense?) in the little village of Dechsendorf, only a short busride from the Berg. Let me remind you that I am now at Day 25 of 28 and the body is feeling it somewhat. Garyth has been dutifully working and behaving in London but the look on his face as we arrive at the festival is one of fear and knowing of what is to come. We had a glorious time with Robs, Andrew and the family (and the locals). Again, no sleep or rest from the party. We did not understand anyone, no one understodd us but we left with many a friend and the beer was SUPERB!
We watched the Super 14 on the Saturday and what a day for South African rugby and for the nation herself. We walked around in our SA rugby jerseys, blowing a vuvuzela and singing the National Anthem. Everyone thought we were nuts, we thought we were the coolest people on earth, if not the proudest. I nearly killed Andrew during the evening though as he would not stop blowing the vuvuzela but he woke up with a swollen upper lip the next day and paid his price.
A year of crappy jobs, weather, crashed computers, ol' grumps and washing one million soiled sheets by hand has been heavily outweighed by life experience, new friendship, unforgettable memories and self belief.
I am so sad that I will miss the World Cup. I watched England arrive in Rustenburg to an unforgettable welcome. I saw Piers Morgan's World Cup special about what it has done for the country, how the singer Nelson Mandela had chosen for the opening ceremony died from meningitis only weeks before realising his dream, I read Desomond Tutu's articles in the international newspapers. Pride, patriotism and pure contentment overwhelms me when I see what can happen, what good there is in the world along with the evil and sadness. So, viva South Africa, viva! May it be the best, most unique World Cup ever.
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Focus on politics, not polygamy
I was proud when I saw my President talking to Queen Elizabeth and when I saw my President and his wife standing with Gordon and Sarah Brown outside 10 Downing Street. I thought, now, this is how it should be. Look how far we have come. Usually, I am the first to place Mr Jacob Zuma in a box. I have written letters of criticism about him to newspapers, concerning his corruption and rape charges. I tried to dissuade people from voting for him.
Since moving to the United Kingdom, however, I have become increasingly upset by the constant negative television coverage and newspaper reporting of South Africa; some articles written by journalists who have never been to the country and have made no effort to understand the variety of cultures or troubled history.
At the time of Jacob Zuma’s arrival in England, the media focussed on President Zuma’s polygamous lifestyle, with one journalist even shouting “Would you recommend polygamy to Mr Brown?” to Zuma outside No. 10.
Now, I find myself coming to the defence of Mr Zuma. Janet Street-Porter, editor of The Independent on Sunday (7 March 2010), sums it up pretty well, “When it comes to polygamy, Mr Zuma may be a Zulu, but he’s not an acceptable caste to the British media folk”. Polygamy, especially if it involves a black leader, is an issue which seems to bring out the worst in the British and “middle-class liberals suddenly go into meltdown and become narrow minded moralists”, says Street-Porter. Why is King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia or the Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates acceptable to the British media? Both of these leaders have several wives and children.
Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s wife, made comments she may have thought humorous but were distasteful, if not hugely ignorant, “President and Mrs Zuma are here later...pretty sure it’s the same Mrs Zuma I met last night...if it’s not the same Mrs Zuma, I’ll feel as if I am being disloyal to the one I met”.
Zuma should not be judged on his polygamous lifestyle by ignorant people in this country or the media looking for an catchy headline. Leave the subject of his many wives and children to his own people and fellow countrymen. Do judge him on his stance on Zimbabwe, his action (or lack of) on policy in South Africa, his view of the AIDS catastrophe.
As much as it is absolutely necessary for newly independent countries to be judged by the same standards as other democratic states, it is also relevant to remember that the majority of South Africa’s people were oppressed for nearly two centuries. Sixteen years on from the first democratic election, it needs to be emphasised that South Africa and other developing African countries are still struggling with the colonial legacy; rearranging culture, language and belief around a “Western” lifestyle and values, dealing with the financial gap between the elite and the poor, intense poverty, AIDS, and racial tension. Zuma admits that ultimately, “Africa’s future rests in the hands of Africans” (The Economist, The World in 2010).
Let the media celebrate the positives as well as the negatives of President Zuma’s visit. Seventeen years ago, a visit to the United Kingdom by the President of South Africa would not have happened. Her people were at war with an apartheid government. In 2009, a majority of voters kept the ANC in power and chose Jacob Zuma as their leader. As was written in The Times editorial, “South Africa is easily the most sophisticated and powerful country in the continent” (5 March 2010). There is no doubt that Zuma has much to prove to the international community. But for goodness sake, focus on his politics, not his polygamy.
Since moving to the United Kingdom, however, I have become increasingly upset by the constant negative television coverage and newspaper reporting of South Africa; some articles written by journalists who have never been to the country and have made no effort to understand the variety of cultures or troubled history.
At the time of Jacob Zuma’s arrival in England, the media focussed on President Zuma’s polygamous lifestyle, with one journalist even shouting “Would you recommend polygamy to Mr Brown?” to Zuma outside No. 10.
Now, I find myself coming to the defence of Mr Zuma. Janet Street-Porter, editor of The Independent on Sunday (7 March 2010), sums it up pretty well, “When it comes to polygamy, Mr Zuma may be a Zulu, but he’s not an acceptable caste to the British media folk”. Polygamy, especially if it involves a black leader, is an issue which seems to bring out the worst in the British and “middle-class liberals suddenly go into meltdown and become narrow minded moralists”, says Street-Porter. Why is King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia or the Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates acceptable to the British media? Both of these leaders have several wives and children.
Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s wife, made comments she may have thought humorous but were distasteful, if not hugely ignorant, “President and Mrs Zuma are here later...pretty sure it’s the same Mrs Zuma I met last night...if it’s not the same Mrs Zuma, I’ll feel as if I am being disloyal to the one I met”.
Zuma should not be judged on his polygamous lifestyle by ignorant people in this country or the media looking for an catchy headline. Leave the subject of his many wives and children to his own people and fellow countrymen. Do judge him on his stance on Zimbabwe, his action (or lack of) on policy in South Africa, his view of the AIDS catastrophe.
As much as it is absolutely necessary for newly independent countries to be judged by the same standards as other democratic states, it is also relevant to remember that the majority of South Africa’s people were oppressed for nearly two centuries. Sixteen years on from the first democratic election, it needs to be emphasised that South Africa and other developing African countries are still struggling with the colonial legacy; rearranging culture, language and belief around a “Western” lifestyle and values, dealing with the financial gap between the elite and the poor, intense poverty, AIDS, and racial tension. Zuma admits that ultimately, “Africa’s future rests in the hands of Africans” (The Economist, The World in 2010).
Let the media celebrate the positives as well as the negatives of President Zuma’s visit. Seventeen years ago, a visit to the United Kingdom by the President of South Africa would not have happened. Her people were at war with an apartheid government. In 2009, a majority of voters kept the ANC in power and chose Jacob Zuma as their leader. As was written in The Times editorial, “South Africa is easily the most sophisticated and powerful country in the continent” (5 March 2010). There is no doubt that Zuma has much to prove to the international community. But for goodness sake, focus on his politics, not his polygamy.
Sunday 11 April 2010
Farewell to my Canterbury existence
My time in Canterbury is coming to an end. I shall look upon my Cathedral City adventure with a warm heart and a giggle; forgetting the awkward moments, arguments, sore knees and visa troubles. Instead, I'll look back in fondness at two and a half months of new situations, learning and life experience in a beautiful city in Kent, the south-east of England...
I will miss waking up to a perfect view of the Cathedral in the morning, and drawing the curtains to the gloriously-lit building at night; walking out of the garden through the private gate into the cloisters and bumping into several tourists looking confused, "She's not the Archdeacon!", all shops and the little library in walking distance; the cobbly streets (especially Pound Lane: the knee-wounding scene) and corner cafes; the tradition and astounding history.
I will long for Maureen's happy voice on a Monday morning and her "hey hos" when she has had a bad day, her caring nature; Andrea's "see you just nows" and short conversations on my way up and down the stairs; Peggy's silly comments about my Oxford accent (couldn't be more far from the truth) and interesting stories from a time gone by; deep meaningful political chatter with Sheila and Derek and the cats at 9pm.
I will have to get used to not hearing the bells calling for the morning service at 7:45 and for evensong at 17:15; not seeing Carl, Colin and Ray for a chat and a gossip on my way out to town; no soup every day for lunch, no Ocado orders and hopefully no more failed cake-baking. I may feel a little lost for a while, having been part of something for so long.
I have learnt a great deal in my weeks at 29 The Precincts, from gluing legs onto a horse to the ins and outs of the National Health System; that crumpets and poached eggs go perfectly together; have been driven through Fordwich, apparently the smallest town in England; have a much-improved knowledge of both World Wars; and have had the honour of sitting in the second row at the Easter Day service at Canterbury Cathedral.
Now, new routines will have to be learnt, new relationships begun, new roads and routes memorised. At the same time, the world awaits with more of life to be experienced. Eleanor Roosevelt expressed long ago what I and many others feel today, "I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life is meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life". I will live...
I will miss waking up to a perfect view of the Cathedral in the morning, and drawing the curtains to the gloriously-lit building at night; walking out of the garden through the private gate into the cloisters and bumping into several tourists looking confused, "She's not the Archdeacon!", all shops and the little library in walking distance; the cobbly streets (especially Pound Lane: the knee-wounding scene) and corner cafes; the tradition and astounding history.
I will long for Maureen's happy voice on a Monday morning and her "hey hos" when she has had a bad day, her caring nature; Andrea's "see you just nows" and short conversations on my way up and down the stairs; Peggy's silly comments about my Oxford accent (couldn't be more far from the truth) and interesting stories from a time gone by; deep meaningful political chatter with Sheila and Derek and the cats at 9pm.
I will have to get used to not hearing the bells calling for the morning service at 7:45 and for evensong at 17:15; not seeing Carl, Colin and Ray for a chat and a gossip on my way out to town; no soup every day for lunch, no Ocado orders and hopefully no more failed cake-baking. I may feel a little lost for a while, having been part of something for so long.
I have learnt a great deal in my weeks at 29 The Precincts, from gluing legs onto a horse to the ins and outs of the National Health System; that crumpets and poached eggs go perfectly together; have been driven through Fordwich, apparently the smallest town in England; have a much-improved knowledge of both World Wars; and have had the honour of sitting in the second row at the Easter Day service at Canterbury Cathedral.
Now, new routines will have to be learnt, new relationships begun, new roads and routes memorised. At the same time, the world awaits with more of life to be experienced. Eleanor Roosevelt expressed long ago what I and many others feel today, "I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life is meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life". I will live...
Thursday 4 March 2010
Stop to think...
There are several times in life when I stops to think; when a warm but uncomfortable feeling resonates in my heart, when I have watched a film that has hit home, or read a book that opens up another compartment in my brain, or I fall upon a precious moment shared between two people quite by mistake, or I let myself dream about what could be. At these times when I stop to think; I am sad because I know who I could be, sad because I wish I had done differently, sad to know what will never be.
Wednesday 3 March 2010
My Canterbury Tales
A week or so ago, I escaped during my break from caring onto Canterbury High Street, walking to nowhere in particular. As I strolled along the cobbled lanes, I could hear music growing louder and louder. I followed the sound from the Cathedral entrance and through the crowds of eager Saturday shoppers. It sounded like live music. Now I was getting a little excited. And there they were; Tom Farrer & The Pharaohs. I had stumbled upon a magical musical experience. Tom and the gang playing music that instantly brought a smile to my forlorn face. I promptly parted with a fiver and bought their album. I am so happy I did, it brings me great joy.
There is something uniquely special about music in the street - anywhere. And it is something that I really enjoy about London and now, Canterbury. There are buskers singing and playing every day on the High Street. It adds such atmosphere to an otherwise ordinary shopping experience for Madeira cake, milk and pork sausages. And it makes me think often of whether I would have the guts to do it myself. I want to pop over to the guy with the guitar, Marks&Spencer bag thrown over my shoulder, and join him in his rendition of John Mayer's latest commercial offering. I envy him, doing what he loves, influencing the day of a passer by or two.
I visited the Norman Castle, Canterbury Museum and walked around the city centre on a brief exploration mission. I have not much to report I am afraid as it was a little disappointing. It is the general atmosphere of this city that makes it feel like you are part of something special, perhaps special is not the right word. There is a tradition here going back centuries and that is what makes Canterbury extraordinary; the Cathedral in the centre and normal everyday life carrying on around it.
After nearly three weeks of care work without a break, I had a well-deserved weekend off. I sped off briefly to London for a farewell party on the Friday night. My friend's boss had hired a boat for the evening and all us lucky invited ones went for a cruise on the Thames. Sadly, my first Thames on-water experience was in the dark. It must be wonderful to cruise along the river in the day and pick up all the sights. It was lots and lots of fun, however, and I happened to be on top form. It took me a while to realise that I was, in fact, off duty. Once my brain had woken up to the realisation, my borrowed cowgirl hat and I had a very good party. The dress-up theme (not my favourite) was "something beginning with a C" (Carmen). I went for the easiest option of Cowgirl.
On Saturday morning, I took the train, feeling rather fragile, to Didcot in Oxfordshire. A dear friend of both my sets of grandparents lives in Orchard House in Didcot, a beautiful home in the countryside, with a stud farm next door and huge grounds. I slept for a good part of the weekend. My body had fallen into shock at not waking up at 6am and sleeping at 11pm or later. My host and I laughed and discussed life's problems over good home-cooked food and piping hot cups of English tea. Desperately needed the break and it hardly hurt being in such a wonderful place.
The political race is on in this country - in a BIG way. The two main political parties, the Tories (Conservatives - Maggie's party) and Labour (party in power presently), are jumping on absolutely anything they can find and hyping it out of proportion in order to damage the image of the opposition. Each day, the news channels and mainstream papers are full of a new political scandal; Gordon Brown is a bully, David Cameron is playing stupid, the polls show Tories are up, the gap is narrowing, will Labour win again even after...blah blah blah, while the rest of the world is ravaged by poverty, war, drought, floods, earthquakes...David Cameron was spotted on a jog this morning, he must have been trying to relieve stress after the last couple of days and the latest revelations that Lord Ashcroft has not been paying all his owed tax...
Fra
There is something uniquely special about music in the street - anywhere. And it is something that I really enjoy about London and now, Canterbury. There are buskers singing and playing every day on the High Street. It adds such atmosphere to an otherwise ordinary shopping experience for Madeira cake, milk and pork sausages. And it makes me think often of whether I would have the guts to do it myself. I want to pop over to the guy with the guitar, Marks&Spencer bag thrown over my shoulder, and join him in his rendition of John Mayer's latest commercial offering. I envy him, doing what he loves, influencing the day of a passer by or two.
I visited the Norman Castle, Canterbury Museum and walked around the city centre on a brief exploration mission. I have not much to report I am afraid as it was a little disappointing. It is the general atmosphere of this city that makes it feel like you are part of something special, perhaps special is not the right word. There is a tradition here going back centuries and that is what makes Canterbury extraordinary; the Cathedral in the centre and normal everyday life carrying on around it.
After nearly three weeks of care work without a break, I had a well-deserved weekend off. I sped off briefly to London for a farewell party on the Friday night. My friend's boss had hired a boat for the evening and all us lucky invited ones went for a cruise on the Thames. Sadly, my first Thames on-water experience was in the dark. It must be wonderful to cruise along the river in the day and pick up all the sights. It was lots and lots of fun, however, and I happened to be on top form. It took me a while to realise that I was, in fact, off duty. Once my brain had woken up to the realisation, my borrowed cowgirl hat and I had a very good party. The dress-up theme (not my favourite) was "something beginning with a C" (Carmen). I went for the easiest option of Cowgirl.
On Saturday morning, I took the train, feeling rather fragile, to Didcot in Oxfordshire. A dear friend of both my sets of grandparents lives in Orchard House in Didcot, a beautiful home in the countryside, with a stud farm next door and huge grounds. I slept for a good part of the weekend. My body had fallen into shock at not waking up at 6am and sleeping at 11pm or later. My host and I laughed and discussed life's problems over good home-cooked food and piping hot cups of English tea. Desperately needed the break and it hardly hurt being in such a wonderful place.
The political race is on in this country - in a BIG way. The two main political parties, the Tories (Conservatives - Maggie's party) and Labour (party in power presently), are jumping on absolutely anything they can find and hyping it out of proportion in order to damage the image of the opposition. Each day, the news channels and mainstream papers are full of a new political scandal; Gordon Brown is a bully, David Cameron is playing stupid, the polls show Tories are up, the gap is narrowing, will Labour win again even after...blah blah blah, while the rest of the world is ravaged by poverty, war, drought, floods, earthquakes...David Cameron was spotted on a jog this morning, he must have been trying to relieve stress after the last couple of days and the latest revelations that Lord Ashcroft has not been paying all his owed tax...
Fra
Tuesday 16 February 2010
The Cathedral City
Pilgrims have flocked here, to Canterbury since 1170, when the Archbishop Thomas Beckett was murdered in the Cathedral. For centuries and centuries, this pilgrimage has contined. The Visitor Guide of Canterbury 2009/2010 says the "magnificence of the cathedral is the essence of Canterbury". There is no doubt about that, "but the city is multi-faceted, containing all the elements of a modern and vibrant cultural centre".
I cannot think of many a good reason why the city of Canterbury would not appeal to any person. There are restaurants, pubs, music venues and in October, the Canterbury Festival which attracts artists and musicians of a high calibre. It is a city to explore on foot, says the Visitor Guide. And this I certainly agree with. There are beautiful cobbled streets lined with specialist shops, cafes, and various waterholes. The high street is 'pedestrianised' which means lots of space and not having to look out for cars all the time. On most days of the week, there are stalls in the high street, selling anything from Winter hats to fresh vegetables to hot pasta.
One can spot the tourists from a mile away, staring around them in wonder. The Cathedral sits in the middle of all this. If you get lost, you can follow the towers of the Cathedral to find the city high street again. There are several other attractions besides the Cathedral, like the Canterbury Tales; an "entertaining re-creation of life in medieval England" (Visitor Guide), St Augustine's Abbey, ruins of the abbey founded by St Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, in 598AD, Eastbridge Hospital, the medieval pilgrim's hospital, and so on.
This is certainly a city to be explored, walked, written about.
Fra
I cannot think of many a good reason why the city of Canterbury would not appeal to any person. There are restaurants, pubs, music venues and in October, the Canterbury Festival which attracts artists and musicians of a high calibre. It is a city to explore on foot, says the Visitor Guide. And this I certainly agree with. There are beautiful cobbled streets lined with specialist shops, cafes, and various waterholes. The high street is 'pedestrianised' which means lots of space and not having to look out for cars all the time. On most days of the week, there are stalls in the high street, selling anything from Winter hats to fresh vegetables to hot pasta.
One can spot the tourists from a mile away, staring around them in wonder. The Cathedral sits in the middle of all this. If you get lost, you can follow the towers of the Cathedral to find the city high street again. There are several other attractions besides the Cathedral, like the Canterbury Tales; an "entertaining re-creation of life in medieval England" (Visitor Guide), St Augustine's Abbey, ruins of the abbey founded by St Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, in 598AD, Eastbridge Hospital, the medieval pilgrim's hospital, and so on.
This is certainly a city to be explored, walked, written about.
Fra
I'm coming home
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I write in the uncertainty of my employment status. I informed the school and the teaching agency of my intention to return to the country of my birth on 1 December (I cannot explain the level of excitement I feel). Let's just say I did not receive a positive response. I've been given half term to re-think my decision and then will inform them next week. I may just have to tell them I am leaving for good quite frankly. Hell's teeth! It is not a pleasant job. I feel it necessary to provide some background information (see bullet points below) to substantiate my opinion:
- I work with two boys, one for the morning session and one for the afternoon session, and two girls over the lunchtime period. As per usual, the girls are delightful, relatively well-mannered and pleasant. The boys, on the other hand, as per usual, are grumpy and difficult.
- Both boys are years behind in comparison to their contemporaries in Year 4 and 5. Unfortunately, they come from bad backgrounds and have not been given the attention and love that I was lucky enough to receive (in truckloads) as a young child and throughout my life. It is with sadness more than anger that I become frustrated at their respective situations. And that frustration then turns to the education system in the United Kingdom, which in my opinion, is rotten to the core.
- According to some of the teachers at my school, at primary school level, you cannot permanently exclude/expel a pupil. If they do something severe (as in hit a teacher), you can suspend them for a few days as punishment. This means that there is no real disciplinary procedure for other offences. In my experience, there is no discipline at all. I have only worked at one school but I speak to all the supply teachers I meet and they say there is a general pattern. My school is one of the worst. (Oh well, thank goodness I cracked a good one then!) When a child is rude or disrespectful or disruptive, you either send him/her to another classroom for another poor teacher to deal with (which the naughty kids love because they get out of work) or you send them to the head teacher or head master. Head master sits them down so that they are at equal height and chats nicely to them to find out what went wrong. He then says, "That can't happen again, okay? Now go back to class and be a good boy." Wow, wouldn't you be frightened?
- What I find most interesting is the system of inclusion of special needs children into the classroom and the mixing up of the different academic levels in one classroom. I understand perfectly the theory behind integrating all children into the same classroom so that no one with a disability is left out. I do think, however, that the disadvantages outweigh the positive aspects. The lower level kids find incredibly difficult because they feel inadequate all the time and they are generally the ones who misbehave. The bright children lose out because they are constantly being disrupted. And the special needs kids, who are unable to concentrate on a good day, simply battle. The boy I work with in the afternoon is in Year 5, the equivalent of SA's Grade 5, and can hardly count to 15. He has behavioural problems due to bad home life etc. The government has paid for his learning support for five years and he still cannot count. He will never be able to learn properly in the classroom environment he is in. He needs to be taught in a different way altogether. Apparently, South Africa is due to introduce this same inclusion system next year.
Anyway, onto brighter and better topics... Went to see my first West End show a few weeks ago. Barry and I bought the cheapest tickets obviously but we could see enough from where we were sitting and the music was too beautiful. We watched a production called Wicked which has connections to the Wizard of Oz. We took turns looking through the little binoculars but there was no problem hearing the singing. Made me want to jump onto the stage...too late to be a West End star she cried?
Another of my classic UK tales is Carminator's Rollerdisco birthday party. Rollerdisco is a disco on a rollerskating floor. I thought that many years after my dismal attempts to rollerskate/rollerblade/waterski/rockclimb/abseil/slide from one rock crevice to another (anything to do with bravery or balance or heights or falling) as a young buck, I would have gotten over most of my fears. Hence, I attempted the impossible again. Most of the group had never put on a pair of rollerskates before. Oh but didn't they take to it like little ducklings to water. Ooooh my blood boils at the thought. I had the advantage of owning a second hand pair of rollerskates in my youth and I still couldn't "roll" any other way than onto the ground and around. The instructors at the event are very helpful. One of the very kind marshalls could see I was useless and came over to help me. At this point, I was hanging precariously from a pillar, my face contorted and my legs shaking. He said he'd help me round the floor. After 100 wobbles and 3 falls, he said, "Do you want to take those off for a while?" He meant, "Never try this again!" in a nice way. And I said "Hell yes!" I went to sit at the bar and drowned my sorrows whilst my contemporaries showed their many talents. Dear me.
Went to Hyde Park and to Sloane Square, beautiful part of London. White buildings, embassies all around. Sarah Braithwaite's friend, Nick Ackerman (of Pick 'n Pay acclaim) lives in Sloane Square across from the Italian embassy. I was in awe of how lovely it all was. Hyde Park was also fantastic. Funny that there were fifty people practicing their rollerskating technique along the pathways, emphasising my inadequacies from the night before.
Carminator and I went exploring the other day around Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. It rained the whole time and we came home cold and looking GOOD. Glad I've seen some of the touristy places. Off to Exeter this weekend to visit my aunt. Looking forward to seeing another part of the country that is England.
Fra
I write in the uncertainty of my employment status. I informed the school and the teaching agency of my intention to return to the country of my birth on 1 December (I cannot explain the level of excitement I feel). Let's just say I did not receive a positive response. I've been given half term to re-think my decision and then will inform them next week. I may just have to tell them I am leaving for good quite frankly. Hell's teeth! It is not a pleasant job. I feel it necessary to provide some background information (see bullet points below) to substantiate my opinion:
- I work with two boys, one for the morning session and one for the afternoon session, and two girls over the lunchtime period. As per usual, the girls are delightful, relatively well-mannered and pleasant. The boys, on the other hand, as per usual, are grumpy and difficult.
- Both boys are years behind in comparison to their contemporaries in Year 4 and 5. Unfortunately, they come from bad backgrounds and have not been given the attention and love that I was lucky enough to receive (in truckloads) as a young child and throughout my life. It is with sadness more than anger that I become frustrated at their respective situations. And that frustration then turns to the education system in the United Kingdom, which in my opinion, is rotten to the core.
- According to some of the teachers at my school, at primary school level, you cannot permanently exclude/expel a pupil. If they do something severe (as in hit a teacher), you can suspend them for a few days as punishment. This means that there is no real disciplinary procedure for other offences. In my experience, there is no discipline at all. I have only worked at one school but I speak to all the supply teachers I meet and they say there is a general pattern. My school is one of the worst. (Oh well, thank goodness I cracked a good one then!) When a child is rude or disrespectful or disruptive, you either send him/her to another classroom for another poor teacher to deal with (which the naughty kids love because they get out of work) or you send them to the head teacher or head master. Head master sits them down so that they are at equal height and chats nicely to them to find out what went wrong. He then says, "That can't happen again, okay? Now go back to class and be a good boy." Wow, wouldn't you be frightened?
- What I find most interesting is the system of inclusion of special needs children into the classroom and the mixing up of the different academic levels in one classroom. I understand perfectly the theory behind integrating all children into the same classroom so that no one with a disability is left out. I do think, however, that the disadvantages outweigh the positive aspects. The lower level kids find incredibly difficult because they feel inadequate all the time and they are generally the ones who misbehave. The bright children lose out because they are constantly being disrupted. And the special needs kids, who are unable to concentrate on a good day, simply battle. The boy I work with in the afternoon is in Year 5, the equivalent of SA's Grade 5, and can hardly count to 15. He has behavioural problems due to bad home life etc. The government has paid for his learning support for five years and he still cannot count. He will never be able to learn properly in the classroom environment he is in. He needs to be taught in a different way altogether. Apparently, South Africa is due to introduce this same inclusion system next year.
Anyway, onto brighter and better topics... Went to see my first West End show a few weeks ago. Barry and I bought the cheapest tickets obviously but we could see enough from where we were sitting and the music was too beautiful. We watched a production called Wicked which has connections to the Wizard of Oz. We took turns looking through the little binoculars but there was no problem hearing the singing. Made me want to jump onto the stage...too late to be a West End star she cried?
Another of my classic UK tales is Carminator's Rollerdisco birthday party. Rollerdisco is a disco on a rollerskating floor. I thought that many years after my dismal attempts to rollerskate/rollerblade/waterski/rockclimb/abseil/slide from one rock crevice to another (anything to do with bravery or balance or heights or falling) as a young buck, I would have gotten over most of my fears. Hence, I attempted the impossible again. Most of the group had never put on a pair of rollerskates before. Oh but didn't they take to it like little ducklings to water. Ooooh my blood boils at the thought. I had the advantage of owning a second hand pair of rollerskates in my youth and I still couldn't "roll" any other way than onto the ground and around. The instructors at the event are very helpful. One of the very kind marshalls could see I was useless and came over to help me. At this point, I was hanging precariously from a pillar, my face contorted and my legs shaking. He said he'd help me round the floor. After 100 wobbles and 3 falls, he said, "Do you want to take those off for a while?" He meant, "Never try this again!" in a nice way. And I said "Hell yes!" I went to sit at the bar and drowned my sorrows whilst my contemporaries showed their many talents. Dear me.
Went to Hyde Park and to Sloane Square, beautiful part of London. White buildings, embassies all around. Sarah Braithwaite's friend, Nick Ackerman (of Pick 'n Pay acclaim) lives in Sloane Square across from the Italian embassy. I was in awe of how lovely it all was. Hyde Park was also fantastic. Funny that there were fifty people practicing their rollerskating technique along the pathways, emphasising my inadequacies from the night before.
Carminator and I went exploring the other day around Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. It rained the whole time and we came home cold and looking GOOD. Glad I've seen some of the touristy places. Off to Exeter this weekend to visit my aunt. Looking forward to seeing another part of the country that is England.
Fra
The Oktoberfest - Prost!
Monday, October 5, 2009
What most surprised me about the entire Oktoberfest experience was the hospitable nature of Munich's people, the Bavarians. From the moment we landed at the airport on Wednesday morning at 8am, we were helped along by friendly train officers, information desk clerks, shop attendants. Quite delightful, it was happiness from beginning to end.
We hardly understood anyone we met but they knew we were there to have a good time and enjoy what the Oktoberfest had to offer and they appreciated it. The festival looks like a huge big theme park. There are lights, food stalls, rides and rollercoasters all over the place, the aromas of sugar-coated nuts, sausages, pancakes and schnitzels fill the air. Every type of sausage you can imagine; you just wouldn't believe it.
There are fourteen beer tents in all and six kinds of beer. Some of the beer tents had outside areas but these were generally very full and one had difficulty finding a seat. We spent most of our time at Lowenbrau and Hofbrau in the late afternoons and evenings (foreign tents, ie Aussies, Kiwis, Italians, Americans). In the day though, we tried to do the more German experience at tents like Paulaner and Augustine. These were my favourite beers, lighter and more tasty than Lowenbrau or Hofbrau.
We made many many friends, partly because we were a group of four girls at a beerfest and partly because people were just so damn friendly. The first day Mills and I were alone, we met four Bavarian girls who helped us order beer and half 'sign-languaged' a conversation with us. I'm friends with a couple of them on Facebook. There were many groups of Italians, too many to mention, some nice, some really slimy. It was all about where you could find a place to sit down. There was hardly ever a free table so we'd always have to join a half-full one.
We just had a ball. I can't even write about how wonderful it was. My mother would be happy to find out that I have a new respect for the American people. Since meeting a group of them on our final day, I have realised they can be incredibly intelligent people and I will give all American people a chance from now on.
Katie and Marli are on exchange in Amsterdam and met us there. The campsite was really nice and so well-organised. I'm definitely not a great camper though but you'd have been very proud of us. There was no complaining and the weather played its part in the success of our trip.
The new teaching job...HELL on earth. I happen to be an LSA (learning support) in a school with a reputation for bad behaviour. Great!This last week has been one of the hardest of my whole life. I thought the probation office was bad. Think again! The probation office was better than this. I officially do not like children in the UK. Take the coaching incident I told about you a while ago and times by one hundred. Dreadful manners, no wait, they do not have any manners, no respect for teachers or their contemporaries, hooligans running about and throwing things around the classroom. Ideal! I am going to make a change in the lives of the two boys I work with though. I have to make it work. Unfortunately, they are a few years behind the rest of their class which makes it all the more difficult. It is very sad to watch how the other children react to someone who is at a lower level and even more sad to watch how the child reacts to knowing he's not as clever as the others in his class.
Fra
What most surprised me about the entire Oktoberfest experience was the hospitable nature of Munich's people, the Bavarians. From the moment we landed at the airport on Wednesday morning at 8am, we were helped along by friendly train officers, information desk clerks, shop attendants. Quite delightful, it was happiness from beginning to end.
We hardly understood anyone we met but they knew we were there to have a good time and enjoy what the Oktoberfest had to offer and they appreciated it. The festival looks like a huge big theme park. There are lights, food stalls, rides and rollercoasters all over the place, the aromas of sugar-coated nuts, sausages, pancakes and schnitzels fill the air. Every type of sausage you can imagine; you just wouldn't believe it.
There are fourteen beer tents in all and six kinds of beer. Some of the beer tents had outside areas but these were generally very full and one had difficulty finding a seat. We spent most of our time at Lowenbrau and Hofbrau in the late afternoons and evenings (foreign tents, ie Aussies, Kiwis, Italians, Americans). In the day though, we tried to do the more German experience at tents like Paulaner and Augustine. These were my favourite beers, lighter and more tasty than Lowenbrau or Hofbrau.
We made many many friends, partly because we were a group of four girls at a beerfest and partly because people were just so damn friendly. The first day Mills and I were alone, we met four Bavarian girls who helped us order beer and half 'sign-languaged' a conversation with us. I'm friends with a couple of them on Facebook. There were many groups of Italians, too many to mention, some nice, some really slimy. It was all about where you could find a place to sit down. There was hardly ever a free table so we'd always have to join a half-full one.
We just had a ball. I can't even write about how wonderful it was. My mother would be happy to find out that I have a new respect for the American people. Since meeting a group of them on our final day, I have realised they can be incredibly intelligent people and I will give all American people a chance from now on.
Katie and Marli are on exchange in Amsterdam and met us there. The campsite was really nice and so well-organised. I'm definitely not a great camper though but you'd have been very proud of us. There was no complaining and the weather played its part in the success of our trip.
The new teaching job...HELL on earth. I happen to be an LSA (learning support) in a school with a reputation for bad behaviour. Great!This last week has been one of the hardest of my whole life. I thought the probation office was bad. Think again! The probation office was better than this. I officially do not like children in the UK. Take the coaching incident I told about you a while ago and times by one hundred. Dreadful manners, no wait, they do not have any manners, no respect for teachers or their contemporaries, hooligans running about and throwing things around the classroom. Ideal! I am going to make a change in the lives of the two boys I work with though. I have to make it work. Unfortunately, they are a few years behind the rest of their class which makes it all the more difficult. It is very sad to watch how the other children react to someone who is at a lower level and even more sad to watch how the child reacts to knowing he's not as clever as the others in his class.
Fra
Living the Wimbledon dream (well, sort of)
June 7, 2009
For those of you who haven't been fortunate to walk through the All England Tennis Club gates, this is for you and for those who have been to watch matches at Wimbledon, I intensely dislike you. This place is spell-binding.
Big black gates protect her from intruders and those who wish to do her harm; ivy, grown over the last two decades, covers nearly every white wall; the colours of green and purple are visible on every sign or item of uniform; Rafa's name still takes pride on the giant scoreboard from the 2008 final, one of the greatest ever; the courts are nearly ready for the tournament, green and not yet lined; the people are friendly, they love working in such an exciting environment; the atmosphere is electric and it is still three weeks until the Championship but it feels as if this year will be better than ever.
Okay, back to earth. I am an Office Administrator for the Championship. My role is described as Accounting and Admin Assistant. Some will be laughing, I am laughing, at the thought of me involved with the accounting side of things. I too am a little afraid but am hoping that I will cope with it all. I am still not sure why they chose me for that particular role as there are others.
For the meantime, in the run-up to the actual tournament, we are stocking the three main shops, training all the 300 other staff and going out for a group dinner and drinks. Best part. A really awesome bunch of people, some Aussies, a Frenchman, a Scotsman and a few British boys. Note the lack of female company. There is only one other British girl working as a manager with me. Not a bad thing I don't think.
For those of you who haven't been fortunate to walk through the All England Tennis Club gates, this is for you and for those who have been to watch matches at Wimbledon, I intensely dislike you. This place is spell-binding.
Big black gates protect her from intruders and those who wish to do her harm; ivy, grown over the last two decades, covers nearly every white wall; the colours of green and purple are visible on every sign or item of uniform; Rafa's name still takes pride on the giant scoreboard from the 2008 final, one of the greatest ever; the courts are nearly ready for the tournament, green and not yet lined; the people are friendly, they love working in such an exciting environment; the atmosphere is electric and it is still three weeks until the Championship but it feels as if this year will be better than ever.
Okay, back to earth. I am an Office Administrator for the Championship. My role is described as Accounting and Admin Assistant. Some will be laughing, I am laughing, at the thought of me involved with the accounting side of things. I too am a little afraid but am hoping that I will cope with it all. I am still not sure why they chose me for that particular role as there are others.
For the meantime, in the run-up to the actual tournament, we are stocking the three main shops, training all the 300 other staff and going out for a group dinner and drinks. Best part. A really awesome bunch of people, some Aussies, a Frenchman, a Scotsman and a few British boys. Note the lack of female company. There is only one other British girl working as a manager with me. Not a bad thing I don't think.
Sunday 14 February 2010
Another job change
Monday, September 21, 2009
District 9. Watch it. Just one of those films that is good just because it has something to do with South Africa. Never thought I'd enjoy sci-fi in anyway, but I absolutely loved the accents, the dialogue, the documentary style, the story idea, not so much the aliens though.
I attempted to go out the other night with my housemates, they are very good at reminding me what a loser I am and that I should be socialising on a Friday night. I seem to be a little over the whole "go to a club and not have a conversation, scream at each other, dance to average music and not remember a thing vibe". It is so good once in a while but that's why it's good, because it's once in a blimmin' while. But I went along anyway and ended up coming home earlier than everyone anyway because I couldn't stand another minute. I walked down Florence Road with the foxes toddling past me. It was all rather surreal. They hardly noticed my presence.
I resigned from my job at the Probation Centre. I'd had enough of people swearing at me through the glass and on the phone. I am now going to be a teaching assistant at a school about an hour away for two young boys. I can be patient when I want to be. Going to meet them in the morning. Another interesting experience to add to my weird and wonderful collection. Can't say I haven't tried to find employment in all spheres.
Saturday: sat in the concrete haven with old friends who were in London for the day and drank copious glasses of wine and had a good giggle. And another two bottles of Raj's Off Licence Special (cafe down the road) before I went home to make supper for a visitor at our house. I did apologise for being about 4 hours tardy.
District 9. Watch it. Just one of those films that is good just because it has something to do with South Africa. Never thought I'd enjoy sci-fi in anyway, but I absolutely loved the accents, the dialogue, the documentary style, the story idea, not so much the aliens though.
I attempted to go out the other night with my housemates, they are very good at reminding me what a loser I am and that I should be socialising on a Friday night. I seem to be a little over the whole "go to a club and not have a conversation, scream at each other, dance to average music and not remember a thing vibe". It is so good once in a while but that's why it's good, because it's once in a blimmin' while. But I went along anyway and ended up coming home earlier than everyone anyway because I couldn't stand another minute. I walked down Florence Road with the foxes toddling past me. It was all rather surreal. They hardly noticed my presence.
I resigned from my job at the Probation Centre. I'd had enough of people swearing at me through the glass and on the phone. I am now going to be a teaching assistant at a school about an hour away for two young boys. I can be patient when I want to be. Going to meet them in the morning. Another interesting experience to add to my weird and wonderful collection. Can't say I haven't tried to find employment in all spheres.
Saturday: sat in the concrete haven with old friends who were in London for the day and drank copious glasses of wine and had a good giggle. And another two bottles of Raj's Off Licence Special (cafe down the road) before I went home to make supper for a visitor at our house. I did apologise for being about 4 hours tardy.
The City of Love
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It's official. I am in love; head-over-heels, knee-bending, "I've-never-felt-like-this-before" kind of love. Everything I could have hoped for and more...sophistication, wealth, attraction, intelligence, culture, energy and utterly unpredictable. I have had a whirlwind romance with a city. Her name is Paris. We had such a special connection, I wanted to bring her back to London with me but unfortunately there really is nothing for her here and I want her to be happy and stay as lovely as she is.
Paris is officially my favourite city, albeit I have not seen many others. Hard to believe but it even surpasses Port Elizabeth in my ratings of beauty and excitement. The people are shoddy, however, a very important aspect and one that PE certainly has no lack of. I can’t explain how architecturally brilliant every building is. I took a million and one photos of buildings. They simply don’t do the architecture justice, partly because of my underaverage photography skills and partly because photographs are a poor second to the real thing when the light, compostition, etc is not just right and you don’t have three hours to take the perfect shot. Excuses, excuses… Make no mistake, it’s not beautiful in the way South Africa is; wide open spaces, beaches, mountains, wildlife, greenery, colour, everything you’d want really. But then South Africa is not a city. We could compare Paris with 'fume and gloom' of JHB for instance, but that would be a fruitless exercise, wouldn't it? (No offence to Joburg-ites).
Paris is remarkably aesthetically pleasing for a city. It is beautiful in some similar ways to SA, however; it’s tradition, proud history. And then, its unbelievable architecture, the tourist friendly attractions; there is so much you can do for absolutely free, and the culture. French is undeniably my favourite language when heard spoken properly and "couramment" (fluently). There is nothing quite like it. I had to lift my jaw off the ground on several occasions after being caught staring at handsome French men chatting at little corner “brasseries”, the steam from piping hot espressos mixing with the smoke from their cigarettes, sitting legs crossed on colourful cane chairs, hands waving about, completely comfortable in their metrosexual ways. All the little coffee plekkies have the same cane chairs, slightly different design and perhaps a different colour but always cane. And never a shortage of ashtrays.
As for the waiters (les garçons) at these street cafés, you’d be impressed. Most wear dress pants with waistcoats and starched white shirts and ties. They make you feel utterly inferior while being very polite and overly patient with your average attempts at speaking their language. I can’t say I was offended in the least; maybe a little humiliated but not offended. Most of the American tourists (note I said most, not all) are so arrogant (or ignorant should I say), they don’t notice the sarcastic undertones. I had a good few chuckles while sipping on a “café au lait” at a little restaurant a street down from the Eiffel Tower. The coffee was well worth the five euros a cup. I wished I was a smoker in those moments. I will never forget my grandmother telling me how she started smoking in the good ol’ days because it was the thing to do; it showed sophistication. The French still pull that sophistication off. What a trendy society, I felt like a real tourist when walking the streets with backpack and camera on my shoulders. The wind blows but all the women's hair is perfect. Their scarves sit well even though they simply fling them around their necks. They walk for miles and miles in high heels and they don't feel a thing. I got so excited about my love for Paris that I started in the middle instead of at the beginning. I'll rewind a little bit.
09/09/09 (momentous!) I thought I was relatively organised for once. I looked up the underground times well in advance: 5:13am to Edgware Road leaving from Wimbledon. Whatever! That train never arrived did it? We eventually arrived at Kings Cross/St Pancras and made it to the International Departures on time. My travelling partner was still half asleep thank goodness and the half rush didn't worry her too much. Passport control couldn't have been a more effortless process. We stood in the queue for five minutes at the most, had our passports stamped and carried on through. Our Eurostar tickets were computer-printed and one simply had to place the barcode onto the sensor at the gate to be let through. Just like that.
St Pancras Int looks like an airport; wide open spaces, customs, boarding gates to the platforms and officials checking your tickets. The Eurostar itself was not hugely impressive, except the toilets had pedals so you didn't actually have to touch anything. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting for my ticket exactly, perhaps more colourful carriages and beverage services? The scenery was spectacular though (okay, maybe that's taking it too far). It was nice to be on an overground train (passed through Calais and Autumn had just hit the fields and farms). We saw the Opera Nationale (gallery of music), stunning building, gold statues etc; Le Louvre (Mona Lisa and all the eighteenth century paintings, also African and South American tribal art - could have spent all day and night here); Tuileries gardens (people sit in green chairs all over the place in the gardens, around the pond, awesome!); Notre Dame (Wow!). Went to a little restaurant near Le Louvre called Le Cafe des Inities. A photo wouldn't have done it justice. The waiter, Benedicte, tried to get me to speak in French and I threw in a few words here and there. He was very nice. We had a little bottle of Cote du Rhone red and some great food while people chattered around us and smoked boxes of cigarettes and laughed. Best part of the day! Then hit the Hotel 'Armstrong' to bed. Interesting, very average hotel but clean sheets and a pillow to rest the head.
10/09/09 After a hearty breakfast of croissants and coffee, we hit the Champs-Elysees: what an amazing street. Shops, shops, restaurants, and the Arc de Triomphe thrown in. Loved it. Took about two hundred photos. Couldn't get close enough to the Arc de Triomphe as I would have liked though. Time was not on our side. Then the Eiffel Tower was next. I also got some great photos. We didn't climb it unfortunately but I hope to do it one day. I am sure the views must be unbelievable from up top. The Eiffel Tower at night is like a huge Christmas tree, you must be able to see it from anywhere in Paris, delightful. Took photos and bought postcards (actually captured it properly). Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur was my favourite part of the trip. We spent the whole afternoon of the second day there (chocolate crepes, frites, cafe au lait), an amazing village, Picasso's first studio, markets of momentos to take back to your part of the world, the cathedral was painstakingly beautiful.
We were fortunate that my travelling partner's housemate works on Eurostar and she gave us tickets for the business lounge which we used on our way back to England. We arrived looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee with bags over our shoulders, takkies on and windswept hair. After a glass of crisp white, I was well on my way to feeling better. I then thought I 'd have a beer just to be safe. Fantastic. Grabbed a complimentary Economist and hopped on the Eurostar home.
All in all, an amazing, world-view-changing experience. Walked a lot, didn't speak enough French and caught the travel bug in a bad way.
Fra
It's official. I am in love; head-over-heels, knee-bending, "I've-never-felt-like-this-before" kind of love. Everything I could have hoped for and more...sophistication, wealth, attraction, intelligence, culture, energy and utterly unpredictable. I have had a whirlwind romance with a city. Her name is Paris. We had such a special connection, I wanted to bring her back to London with me but unfortunately there really is nothing for her here and I want her to be happy and stay as lovely as she is.
Paris is officially my favourite city, albeit I have not seen many others. Hard to believe but it even surpasses Port Elizabeth in my ratings of beauty and excitement. The people are shoddy, however, a very important aspect and one that PE certainly has no lack of. I can’t explain how architecturally brilliant every building is. I took a million and one photos of buildings. They simply don’t do the architecture justice, partly because of my underaverage photography skills and partly because photographs are a poor second to the real thing when the light, compostition, etc is not just right and you don’t have three hours to take the perfect shot. Excuses, excuses… Make no mistake, it’s not beautiful in the way South Africa is; wide open spaces, beaches, mountains, wildlife, greenery, colour, everything you’d want really. But then South Africa is not a city. We could compare Paris with 'fume and gloom' of JHB for instance, but that would be a fruitless exercise, wouldn't it? (No offence to Joburg-ites).
Paris is remarkably aesthetically pleasing for a city. It is beautiful in some similar ways to SA, however; it’s tradition, proud history. And then, its unbelievable architecture, the tourist friendly attractions; there is so much you can do for absolutely free, and the culture. French is undeniably my favourite language when heard spoken properly and "couramment" (fluently). There is nothing quite like it. I had to lift my jaw off the ground on several occasions after being caught staring at handsome French men chatting at little corner “brasseries”, the steam from piping hot espressos mixing with the smoke from their cigarettes, sitting legs crossed on colourful cane chairs, hands waving about, completely comfortable in their metrosexual ways. All the little coffee plekkies have the same cane chairs, slightly different design and perhaps a different colour but always cane. And never a shortage of ashtrays.
As for the waiters (les garçons) at these street cafés, you’d be impressed. Most wear dress pants with waistcoats and starched white shirts and ties. They make you feel utterly inferior while being very polite and overly patient with your average attempts at speaking their language. I can’t say I was offended in the least; maybe a little humiliated but not offended. Most of the American tourists (note I said most, not all) are so arrogant (or ignorant should I say), they don’t notice the sarcastic undertones. I had a good few chuckles while sipping on a “café au lait” at a little restaurant a street down from the Eiffel Tower. The coffee was well worth the five euros a cup. I wished I was a smoker in those moments. I will never forget my grandmother telling me how she started smoking in the good ol’ days because it was the thing to do; it showed sophistication. The French still pull that sophistication off. What a trendy society, I felt like a real tourist when walking the streets with backpack and camera on my shoulders. The wind blows but all the women's hair is perfect. Their scarves sit well even though they simply fling them around their necks. They walk for miles and miles in high heels and they don't feel a thing. I got so excited about my love for Paris that I started in the middle instead of at the beginning. I'll rewind a little bit.
09/09/09 (momentous!) I thought I was relatively organised for once. I looked up the underground times well in advance: 5:13am to Edgware Road leaving from Wimbledon. Whatever! That train never arrived did it? We eventually arrived at Kings Cross/St Pancras and made it to the International Departures on time. My travelling partner was still half asleep thank goodness and the half rush didn't worry her too much. Passport control couldn't have been a more effortless process. We stood in the queue for five minutes at the most, had our passports stamped and carried on through. Our Eurostar tickets were computer-printed and one simply had to place the barcode onto the sensor at the gate to be let through. Just like that.
St Pancras Int looks like an airport; wide open spaces, customs, boarding gates to the platforms and officials checking your tickets. The Eurostar itself was not hugely impressive, except the toilets had pedals so you didn't actually have to touch anything. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting for my ticket exactly, perhaps more colourful carriages and beverage services? The scenery was spectacular though (okay, maybe that's taking it too far). It was nice to be on an overground train (passed through Calais and Autumn had just hit the fields and farms). We saw the Opera Nationale (gallery of music), stunning building, gold statues etc; Le Louvre (Mona Lisa and all the eighteenth century paintings, also African and South American tribal art - could have spent all day and night here); Tuileries gardens (people sit in green chairs all over the place in the gardens, around the pond, awesome!); Notre Dame (Wow!). Went to a little restaurant near Le Louvre called Le Cafe des Inities. A photo wouldn't have done it justice. The waiter, Benedicte, tried to get me to speak in French and I threw in a few words here and there. He was very nice. We had a little bottle of Cote du Rhone red and some great food while people chattered around us and smoked boxes of cigarettes and laughed. Best part of the day! Then hit the Hotel 'Armstrong' to bed. Interesting, very average hotel but clean sheets and a pillow to rest the head.
10/09/09 After a hearty breakfast of croissants and coffee, we hit the Champs-Elysees: what an amazing street. Shops, shops, restaurants, and the Arc de Triomphe thrown in. Loved it. Took about two hundred photos. Couldn't get close enough to the Arc de Triomphe as I would have liked though. Time was not on our side. Then the Eiffel Tower was next. I also got some great photos. We didn't climb it unfortunately but I hope to do it one day. I am sure the views must be unbelievable from up top. The Eiffel Tower at night is like a huge Christmas tree, you must be able to see it from anywhere in Paris, delightful. Took photos and bought postcards (actually captured it properly). Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur was my favourite part of the trip. We spent the whole afternoon of the second day there (chocolate crepes, frites, cafe au lait), an amazing village, Picasso's first studio, markets of momentos to take back to your part of the world, the cathedral was painstakingly beautiful.
We were fortunate that my travelling partner's housemate works on Eurostar and she gave us tickets for the business lounge which we used on our way back to England. We arrived looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee with bags over our shoulders, takkies on and windswept hair. After a glass of crisp white, I was well on my way to feeling better. I then thought I 'd have a beer just to be safe. Fantastic. Grabbed a complimentary Economist and hopped on the Eurostar home.
All in all, an amazing, world-view-changing experience. Walked a lot, didn't speak enough French and caught the travel bug in a bad way.
Fra
Saturday, September 5, 2009
South Africa is the leading act on the world stage at the moment. Every newspaper and magazine has something about the World Cup in it. I'm basking in the positivity for once. It is about time I say...
Anyway, times are tough on the employment side of things. It is my last day at the National Pandemic Flu Service tomorrow. They are shutting down our Call Centre. My 'efficient and reliable' agency did not inform me of this and so I had to piece together the pieces of the jigsaw myself. Will miss my fellow Swine Flu Agents. We have such a nice bank of people; good banter and laughter and quiz mornings, etc. Will be so very good to have my weekends back but need the money desperately to keep going so that I can eventually save and pay back a little debt. The other agency, that I do the probation office work for, still hasn't processed my tax forms so I am still paying emergency (highest rates) tax. Infuriating! The tax office will owe me a big rebate at the end of it all I hope.
Something very exciting happens on Wednesday next week though. I am off to Paris, France for a night with a friend from Piggy Flu Services. We disagree on everything about South Africa but get along very well otherwise. We're heading off on the Eurostar train with packed lunches and maps in hand. Neither of us have any money to spend so should be fun. We're staying at a hotel called the Armstrong (Hehe Tristan, thought of you when I booked). It's not far from all the sights and sounds of the "city of love". As you can imagine, France is another of my dream experiences so a little taste for the night will do just fine. We shall have to splash out on some good rooi wyn and a little bistro cuisine in the evening. So very lucky. The story is not so simple though...
It all started late one evening when Megan Mills arrived home from her pub job and I returned from some or other engagement. A wise man once told me that if there is one trip I make, it should be a journey to Munich for the Oktoberfest. I haven't asked him why it was so good but huge jugs of beer makes any situation fantastic. I haven't the money to do any travelling this year actually but I thought if I could see one little bit of Europe in the eight months I'm here, it should be a beer festival (yummy) in Germany. Mills and I sat at out miniature kitchen table amongst the washing up and bread crumbs and researched (in all fairness, Mills did most of the work) our cheapest flight and accommodation options. Three nights in a tent, breakfast, shuttles to and from the festival and flights to Munich and back is costing us about 170 pounds. Ridiculously reasonable. We were just so lucky. We even found an Oktoberfest hat (in the shape of a keg) in our cupboard in the lounge. If that isn't a sign, then I don't know.
It was too late to book an appointment with the German embassy, so I needed to get a multi-entry through France or Portugal. France seemed the obvious choice. Then the real drama of acquiring a Schengen visa began. I wrote French letters to the embassy, asked for a three month visa instead of six, and 150 pounds for a night in Paris and 115 pounds for a visa later, I am permitted to enter the country of Germany. A reasonably inexpensive trip becomes exorbitant! Broke as anything but extremely happy and grateful as that is why I am here, right?
It is officially Autumn here. The wind has become chilling to the bone and it is getting dark much earlier than it used to. Runs before or after work are unbearable, just can't wait for Winter. It's going to be awesome. Hehe.
Went to the Notting Hill festival on the bank holiday (public holiday) on 31/08/09. We arrived too late so had missed most of the action. There was a delightful little Jamaican girl dancing on the street though. Definitely my highlight of the afternoon. She could hardly stand but boy, could she dance. Warms my heart when I see a dancer, born with rhythm in her bones. She loved the cameras and everyone who passed, everyone, took a photo of her. She's clasp her hands together ans show off her perfect white teeth. Never seen a Daddy so proud.
South Africa is the leading act on the world stage at the moment. Every newspaper and magazine has something about the World Cup in it. I'm basking in the positivity for once. It is about time I say...
Anyway, times are tough on the employment side of things. It is my last day at the National Pandemic Flu Service tomorrow. They are shutting down our Call Centre. My 'efficient and reliable' agency did not inform me of this and so I had to piece together the pieces of the jigsaw myself. Will miss my fellow Swine Flu Agents. We have such a nice bank of people; good banter and laughter and quiz mornings, etc. Will be so very good to have my weekends back but need the money desperately to keep going so that I can eventually save and pay back a little debt. The other agency, that I do the probation office work for, still hasn't processed my tax forms so I am still paying emergency (highest rates) tax. Infuriating! The tax office will owe me a big rebate at the end of it all I hope.
Something very exciting happens on Wednesday next week though. I am off to Paris, France for a night with a friend from Piggy Flu Services. We disagree on everything about South Africa but get along very well otherwise. We're heading off on the Eurostar train with packed lunches and maps in hand. Neither of us have any money to spend so should be fun. We're staying at a hotel called the Armstrong (Hehe Tristan, thought of you when I booked). It's not far from all the sights and sounds of the "city of love". As you can imagine, France is another of my dream experiences so a little taste for the night will do just fine. We shall have to splash out on some good rooi wyn and a little bistro cuisine in the evening. So very lucky. The story is not so simple though...
It all started late one evening when Megan Mills arrived home from her pub job and I returned from some or other engagement. A wise man once told me that if there is one trip I make, it should be a journey to Munich for the Oktoberfest. I haven't asked him why it was so good but huge jugs of beer makes any situation fantastic. I haven't the money to do any travelling this year actually but I thought if I could see one little bit of Europe in the eight months I'm here, it should be a beer festival (yummy) in Germany. Mills and I sat at out miniature kitchen table amongst the washing up and bread crumbs and researched (in all fairness, Mills did most of the work) our cheapest flight and accommodation options. Three nights in a tent, breakfast, shuttles to and from the festival and flights to Munich and back is costing us about 170 pounds. Ridiculously reasonable. We were just so lucky. We even found an Oktoberfest hat (in the shape of a keg) in our cupboard in the lounge. If that isn't a sign, then I don't know.
It was too late to book an appointment with the German embassy, so I needed to get a multi-entry through France or Portugal. France seemed the obvious choice. Then the real drama of acquiring a Schengen visa began. I wrote French letters to the embassy, asked for a three month visa instead of six, and 150 pounds for a night in Paris and 115 pounds for a visa later, I am permitted to enter the country of Germany. A reasonably inexpensive trip becomes exorbitant! Broke as anything but extremely happy and grateful as that is why I am here, right?
It is officially Autumn here. The wind has become chilling to the bone and it is getting dark much earlier than it used to. Runs before or after work are unbearable, just can't wait for Winter. It's going to be awesome. Hehe.
Went to the Notting Hill festival on the bank holiday (public holiday) on 31/08/09. We arrived too late so had missed most of the action. There was a delightful little Jamaican girl dancing on the street though. Definitely my highlight of the afternoon. She could hardly stand but boy, could she dance. Warms my heart when I see a dancer, born with rhythm in her bones. She loved the cameras and everyone who passed, everyone, took a photo of her. She's clasp her hands together ans show off her perfect white teeth. Never seen a Daddy so proud.
The "fortnight"
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Wimbledon Championships are about so much more than just the high standard tennis. Make no mistake; there is nothing like watching Roger Federer rule the court or Andy Murray in front of his home crowd or Tommy Haas playing the best tennis of his life. And do not forget the Williams sisters’ domination of the women’s game either. But there is something about the “Wimbledon experience” which impresses; the tradition, the pride and the aura of Wimbledon that places the “fortnight” a step above other Grand Slam tournaments and sporting events, in a class of its own.
Tennis greats like John McEnroe and Pete Sampras still place the Wimbledon title at the top of their lists. According to Larissa Tilbury, Corporate Sales Office Manager at The Wimbledon Shop, “Wimbledon is the Grand Slam because it is so rich in tradition. “It is not the tournament with the biggest prize money but the one that every player wants to win, simply because it’s Wimbledon”, she said.
Phil Brunetti, Stock Control Manager in one of The Wimbledon Shops, said the tournament is special because the players really seem to care.
“They respect the Wimbledon traditions, the all-white rules, most players just love coming to compete here.“Wimbledon is a magical land for two weeks of the year. I have been coming to watch the tennis since I can remember. When I was old enough to work, it seemed ideal as I live fifteen minutes away. So voila, the rest is history and this is my third year at The Wimbledon Shop,” Brunetti said.
“It is a such a privilege to be here. Some people dream of being at Wimbledon for just one day. I get paid to be here for the whole two weeks and soak up the atmosphere, the buzz and the happy people.”
This year, the weather played its part in the success of the Championships. According to Harry Santa Ooh La-la, floor manager of the Court 1 Shop, the good weather benefited the tournament as a whole.“The good weather boosted the morale of the staff as well as the spectators. We were lucky in this respect,” he said.
As Agassi says, magic can happen at Wimbledon. And it sure does, what a fortnight!
SOME QUOTES: What makes Wimbledon special for you?
“I love Wimbledon because it reminds me of all the special eccentric aspects about England; the strawberries, the Pimms, the rich history, the tradition, what England was like when it was a nice place with no knives.”
“I love Wimbledon, there is a great vibe. I really enjoy being here. The fact is that Wimbledon is tennis. Other tournaments are incomparable, Wimbledon is in another league.”
"Howzit bru?” (The ripping off of my accent simply never got old. Another favourite line was "Can you spare me a cigarette?" from the movie Blood Diamond. Was Leo DiCaprio not Rhodesian/Zimbabwean in that movie? Anyway :)
“These are the best two weeks of my year and always have been. The Village goes from dead to a real buzz. It’s like a tennis club but in the Village, with the players walking around and stuff.”
“The massive network of people is the best thing. I love the social side of the event. It was really good to watch one of the biggest sporting events in the world happen.”
Why do you work at Wimbledon?
“The fact that Wimbledon is the ultimate Grand Slam. It’s British; it’s tradition, it’s strawberries and cream, the whites, the Pimms, it’s the biggest prize in tennis. It has been a privilege to work at a world class event like this.”
"To be part of such a majestic, outstanding event and work with people less good-looking than myself.”
“It has been a really great experience being part of one of the biggest sporting events in the world. I love the vibe; it is about so much more than just the tennis. It is about the beautiful grounds, the dress-up, as much about its aura than just the tennis.”
"I like the holiday atmosphere, meeting lots of different people. As for the strawberries and cream? I’m English, I could have that anytime.”
The Wimbledon Championships are about so much more than just the high standard tennis. Make no mistake; there is nothing like watching Roger Federer rule the court or Andy Murray in front of his home crowd or Tommy Haas playing the best tennis of his life. And do not forget the Williams sisters’ domination of the women’s game either. But there is something about the “Wimbledon experience” which impresses; the tradition, the pride and the aura of Wimbledon that places the “fortnight” a step above other Grand Slam tournaments and sporting events, in a class of its own.
Tennis greats like John McEnroe and Pete Sampras still place the Wimbledon title at the top of their lists. According to Larissa Tilbury, Corporate Sales Office Manager at The Wimbledon Shop, “Wimbledon is the Grand Slam because it is so rich in tradition. “It is not the tournament with the biggest prize money but the one that every player wants to win, simply because it’s Wimbledon”, she said.
Phil Brunetti, Stock Control Manager in one of The Wimbledon Shops, said the tournament is special because the players really seem to care.
“They respect the Wimbledon traditions, the all-white rules, most players just love coming to compete here.“Wimbledon is a magical land for two weeks of the year. I have been coming to watch the tennis since I can remember. When I was old enough to work, it seemed ideal as I live fifteen minutes away. So voila, the rest is history and this is my third year at The Wimbledon Shop,” Brunetti said.
“It is a such a privilege to be here. Some people dream of being at Wimbledon for just one day. I get paid to be here for the whole two weeks and soak up the atmosphere, the buzz and the happy people.”
This year, the weather played its part in the success of the Championships. According to Harry Santa Ooh La-la, floor manager of the Court 1 Shop, the good weather benefited the tournament as a whole.“The good weather boosted the morale of the staff as well as the spectators. We were lucky in this respect,” he said.
As Agassi says, magic can happen at Wimbledon. And it sure does, what a fortnight!
SOME QUOTES: What makes Wimbledon special for you?
“I love Wimbledon because it reminds me of all the special eccentric aspects about England; the strawberries, the Pimms, the rich history, the tradition, what England was like when it was a nice place with no knives.”
“I love Wimbledon, there is a great vibe. I really enjoy being here. The fact is that Wimbledon is tennis. Other tournaments are incomparable, Wimbledon is in another league.”
"Howzit bru?” (The ripping off of my accent simply never got old. Another favourite line was "Can you spare me a cigarette?" from the movie Blood Diamond. Was Leo DiCaprio not Rhodesian/Zimbabwean in that movie? Anyway :)
“These are the best two weeks of my year and always have been. The Village goes from dead to a real buzz. It’s like a tennis club but in the Village, with the players walking around and stuff.”
“The massive network of people is the best thing. I love the social side of the event. It was really good to watch one of the biggest sporting events in the world happen.”
Why do you work at Wimbledon?
“The fact that Wimbledon is the ultimate Grand Slam. It’s British; it’s tradition, it’s strawberries and cream, the whites, the Pimms, it’s the biggest prize in tennis. It has been a privilege to work at a world class event like this.”
"To be part of such a majestic, outstanding event and work with people less good-looking than myself.”
“It has been a really great experience being part of one of the biggest sporting events in the world. I love the vibe; it is about so much more than just the tennis. It is about the beautiful grounds, the dress-up, as much about its aura than just the tennis.”
"I like the holiday atmosphere, meeting lots of different people. As for the strawberries and cream? I’m English, I could have that anytime.”
WIMBLEDON, THE PLACE WHERE MAGIC HAPPENS
Sunday, June 21, 2009
And the magic begins tomorrow afternoon. The buzz is electric in this little town, people are tense with excitement, Andy Murray is in with a chance and the media are making the most of it. The temporary food stalls are erected, the jazz band marquee is ready, the hedges are perfectly trimmed, the flowers are delivered, the strawberries and cream are in the fridge, the 700 security guards are prepared, the Wimbledon Shops are stocked, the tills are programmed and the draw is final. Nadal is out and everyone is talking about it. The courts are green with anticipation, the ball boys and girls are practiced and kitted out in Ralph Lauren.
The tennis greats have been practicing; Federer, Hewitt, Safin, Murray, Lopez...Dementieva, Sharapova, Ivanovic. To see them in the flesh is enough to make one tear up, the realness of it all, the aura of greatness, the tradition, the all-whites, the Wimbledon colours.
So I have created the atmosphere for you. The long hours and average work have been more than worth it. When I saw Federer for five minutes knocking with Rafa and Murray and Safin and Hewitt, my trip to London was made. When I finished work at 8pm on Friday, I smiled as I left the grounds, happily exhausted. If I have to leave the UK tomorrow, it has all been worth it, just to bump into Hewitt on the path and exchange an awkward apology, or to walk past Safin at a little cafe in Wimbledon Village. Surreal I tell you.
The Wimbledon Management Team went out for a few drinks last night. A fantastic evening full of good British banter and beer. I am going to be sitting for most of the two weeks in a mysterious, dark room counting money, thousands and thousands of pounds, cash-lifting, doing the odd bank trip and then counting again. Hopefully in my break, I will be able to escape the darkness for the light of the tennis world and the grace of the glorious (and married, soon-to-be father) Federer, Murray the arrogant ambitious ace, legs-to-her-neck Sharapova, etcetera...
Spent a wonderful afternoon with Susanna (from Stellies journalism fame) and her housemates with Two Oceans wine and laughter at the Leather Bottle in Earlsfield. The Bokke nearly had a wobbly.I walked past Starbucks on Saturday, a sea of green Springbok jerseys and coffee. I stepped onto the bus (to the Barclays bank) full of green and gold scarves and Afrikaans chatter and British Lions supporters in the minority. London was excited to the core! Broke as can be but remaining happy!! Life promises so much...
I wish all my family and friends could spend a day at the Wimbledon courts, a glass of 100 pound champagne in the hand, the odd strawberry with a dollop of cream and a good laugh. The tennis would only be an added bonus. I shall write at the end of Week Two, when the play is finished, the dream has disappeared for another year and the magic has faded somewhat...and the job search begins again...
And the magic begins tomorrow afternoon. The buzz is electric in this little town, people are tense with excitement, Andy Murray is in with a chance and the media are making the most of it. The temporary food stalls are erected, the jazz band marquee is ready, the hedges are perfectly trimmed, the flowers are delivered, the strawberries and cream are in the fridge, the 700 security guards are prepared, the Wimbledon Shops are stocked, the tills are programmed and the draw is final. Nadal is out and everyone is talking about it. The courts are green with anticipation, the ball boys and girls are practiced and kitted out in Ralph Lauren.
The tennis greats have been practicing; Federer, Hewitt, Safin, Murray, Lopez...Dementieva, Sharapova, Ivanovic. To see them in the flesh is enough to make one tear up, the realness of it all, the aura of greatness, the tradition, the all-whites, the Wimbledon colours.
So I have created the atmosphere for you. The long hours and average work have been more than worth it. When I saw Federer for five minutes knocking with Rafa and Murray and Safin and Hewitt, my trip to London was made. When I finished work at 8pm on Friday, I smiled as I left the grounds, happily exhausted. If I have to leave the UK tomorrow, it has all been worth it, just to bump into Hewitt on the path and exchange an awkward apology, or to walk past Safin at a little cafe in Wimbledon Village. Surreal I tell you.
The Wimbledon Management Team went out for a few drinks last night. A fantastic evening full of good British banter and beer. I am going to be sitting for most of the two weeks in a mysterious, dark room counting money, thousands and thousands of pounds, cash-lifting, doing the odd bank trip and then counting again. Hopefully in my break, I will be able to escape the darkness for the light of the tennis world and the grace of the glorious (and married, soon-to-be father) Federer, Murray the arrogant ambitious ace, legs-to-her-neck Sharapova, etcetera...
Spent a wonderful afternoon with Susanna (from Stellies journalism fame) and her housemates with Two Oceans wine and laughter at the Leather Bottle in Earlsfield. The Bokke nearly had a wobbly.I walked past Starbucks on Saturday, a sea of green Springbok jerseys and coffee. I stepped onto the bus (to the Barclays bank) full of green and gold scarves and Afrikaans chatter and British Lions supporters in the minority. London was excited to the core! Broke as can be but remaining happy!! Life promises so much...
I wish all my family and friends could spend a day at the Wimbledon courts, a glass of 100 pound champagne in the hand, the odd strawberry with a dollop of cream and a good laugh. The tennis would only be an added bonus. I shall write at the end of Week Two, when the play is finished, the dream has disappeared for another year and the magic has faded somewhat...and the job search begins again...
My first weeks at Wimbledon
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Yay to the SA Cricket Team, boo to the Sharks! Yay to the hot weather today and boo to the R100 it cost to play on a court for an hour! Yay to having a job and boo to working tomorrow (Sunday)!
Played tennis with cousin Garyth Turner, he was so brilliant and I was so useless, he would definitely have beaten me had we played a match. It was definitely the nicest day since I have been here and I spent every minute outside. Joy! This afternoon, I went up to the Wimbledon Village to meet another girl on the Management Team for the Wimbedon Shop. She has a flat in the middle of Wimbledon Village amongst all the little cafes, restaurants, wonderfully exquisite but expensive pubs like the Dog and Fox or the Rose and Crown, upmarket clothes shops and so forth. She and I bought a beverage at the local Off Licence store and sauntered over to the Wimbledon common, a public piece of land (nearly like a park but longish grass and a little dam in the middle), where we lay about in the sun and spoke about a whole lot of rubbish. She was born in London but has resided in Portugal for the last seven years with her Mom, Dad and siblings. Her family still lives in Portugal but she has studied here and has worked at the Wimbledon Champs for many years and has slowly moved up the ranks. I have so enjoyed spending a bit of time with her.
There was a fair on in the Common too with merry-go-rounds, candy floss stands and those stalls where you can throw hoops over pegs and win awfully large teddy bears and other strange furry animals. Daisy and I made sure we had a 99, which is a soft serve with a flake in it, from Mr Whippy. Just like the jolly movies, not right? As I was off to buy tennis balls today, traffic was help up becaue of the police doing some work for charity, pulling an ambulance up a hill with their bodies. Other members of the force were running around with buckets asking for donations. It was a mixture of the first week at Stellenbosch (Jool) and something from WWF, what a weird country this is!
Other than that, I am working tomorrow at the Museum Shop for the whole day. Nice extra pocket money, which is great but a little irritated to work on a Sunday. Exhausted.Was invited to supper with the colleagues last night, made sure I behaved very well and cooked and cleaned, etc, while I was there. So enjoying spending time with some young, interesting British people. They have a certain humour which is something else. They do never get over the SA accent though. Every second person is trying to perfect my accent, you'd think they would be used to the South Africans by now. When I arrive at work, I get about one thousand "Howzit Bru"s and several "as well"s and "just now"s. It is hilarious!
Oh, also went out on Thursday to watch the very disappointing Sharks in action. It was SAFFA night at The Clapham Grand, a very larney club across the road from Clampham Junction train station. There were SA Rugby flags, Sharks, Stormers and Bulls posters, Springbok scarves all over the place, etc. I cannot believe there are so many South Africans here that businesses and establishments can make a fortune out of them. Saffa night was full, full, full. Hectic!
Yay to the SA Cricket Team, boo to the Sharks! Yay to the hot weather today and boo to the R100 it cost to play on a court for an hour! Yay to having a job and boo to working tomorrow (Sunday)!
Played tennis with cousin Garyth Turner, he was so brilliant and I was so useless, he would definitely have beaten me had we played a match. It was definitely the nicest day since I have been here and I spent every minute outside. Joy! This afternoon, I went up to the Wimbledon Village to meet another girl on the Management Team for the Wimbedon Shop. She has a flat in the middle of Wimbledon Village amongst all the little cafes, restaurants, wonderfully exquisite but expensive pubs like the Dog and Fox or the Rose and Crown, upmarket clothes shops and so forth. She and I bought a beverage at the local Off Licence store and sauntered over to the Wimbledon common, a public piece of land (nearly like a park but longish grass and a little dam in the middle), where we lay about in the sun and spoke about a whole lot of rubbish. She was born in London but has resided in Portugal for the last seven years with her Mom, Dad and siblings. Her family still lives in Portugal but she has studied here and has worked at the Wimbledon Champs for many years and has slowly moved up the ranks. I have so enjoyed spending a bit of time with her.
There was a fair on in the Common too with merry-go-rounds, candy floss stands and those stalls where you can throw hoops over pegs and win awfully large teddy bears and other strange furry animals. Daisy and I made sure we had a 99, which is a soft serve with a flake in it, from Mr Whippy. Just like the jolly movies, not right? As I was off to buy tennis balls today, traffic was help up becaue of the police doing some work for charity, pulling an ambulance up a hill with their bodies. Other members of the force were running around with buckets asking for donations. It was a mixture of the first week at Stellenbosch (Jool) and something from WWF, what a weird country this is!
Other than that, I am working tomorrow at the Museum Shop for the whole day. Nice extra pocket money, which is great but a little irritated to work on a Sunday. Exhausted.Was invited to supper with the colleagues last night, made sure I behaved very well and cooked and cleaned, etc, while I was there. So enjoying spending time with some young, interesting British people. They have a certain humour which is something else. They do never get over the SA accent though. Every second person is trying to perfect my accent, you'd think they would be used to the South Africans by now. When I arrive at work, I get about one thousand "Howzit Bru"s and several "as well"s and "just now"s. It is hilarious!
Oh, also went out on Thursday to watch the very disappointing Sharks in action. It was SAFFA night at The Clapham Grand, a very larney club across the road from Clampham Junction train station. There were SA Rugby flags, Sharks, Stormers and Bulls posters, Springbok scarves all over the place, etc. I cannot believe there are so many South Africans here that businesses and establishments can make a fortune out of them. Saffa night was full, full, full. Hectic!
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