So this Scotsman gets on his bike ……

It does sound much like the beginning part of a joke, but the punchline, I am almost sure involves an arse that goes numb forever and no doubt a case or two of malaria, or some other ailment.  Unfortunately I do not think of unicorns and glitter farts when I think about biking across Africa.  Cycling from across Cape Town will probably result in you losing your bike, and that is all, if you are lucky.

My brother Bruce is one year one month older than me —- so my mom didn’t exactly wait long between child two and child three, but that is another story.  For another day.

Bruce it appears is far braver than I would be ever.

Bruce has decided to get his arse on a bike and cycle from Glasgow to Cape Town, and he starts this little jaunt on the 19 November 2015.

No, unfortunately not on a dare made at a pub late at night, it’s an e-bike, and unless e stands for e-toll then I am pretty much out of this technically speaking.

The story was published in SCOTLAND NOW


The one on the right is Bruce MacLeod the one on the left is his e-bike.  I have a feeling that the bike and his nether regions are going to build a long, and lasting relationship over the next few months.

CYCLING from your workplace back home doesn’t sound like a huge challenge but it is for Scots businessman Bruce MacLeod – as his hometown is in South Africa!

The adventurer sets off on his epic 12,500-mile (20,000km) journey from Glasgow to Cape Town, SA, next week (November 19) as he attempts to smash a world record for the furthest distance travelled on an electric bicycle (e-bike) pulling a solar trailer.

If he completes the expedition, which will be split into two legs (Glasgow to Paris and Paris to Cape Town), he will set another record – and become the first person to cycle the length of Africa on en e-bike.

By doing so, he hopes to raise awareness and funds for the Purple Heart Network ( ), a climate change charity he co-founded this year to address social and environmental injustices at home and across the globe.

Father-of-two Bruce, who is of Scottish descent and was born in Cape Town, said: “When I tell people about my plan they say ‘I wouldn’t do that, why are you doing it?’

“I know I am not 22 anymore. I am a 44-year-old who has a young family, a new business and responsibilities, but this is my last hooray to craziness! It is now or never.

“I am not even a cyclist! But this challenge doesn’t require me to be, I just have to go from A to B. I am a strong person physically and I have a strong frame of mind.”

Bruce admits to having lived a life of adventure – he even applied to be a Cowboy in Montana – but he has never attempted anything so ambitious, until now.

Read more here >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 


So that’s what my brother is up to.  Yours?

Do we lie to our kids about the Festive Season?

Isabelle had her first tooth fall out.  I (I had to correct that from we ….. yeah moving along) hyped up the entire tooth fairy thing, and she hid her tooth under her pillow as part of the very clear instructions I gave her which would help the tooth fairy find the tooth.

{yes this photograph is taken inside the vegetable aisle at Pick ‘n Pay}


I gave her a large envelope as well — I figured scratching around for the tooth in the dark is going to be less fun than say just feeling for an envelope.

I wrote a letter from the Tooth Fairy – I spent some time sprinkling glitter on her face and on her hand and left her to find the letter in the morning.

She was really thrilled when she woke up.

She told me she has another 5 teeth that are loose.

At which point are we lying to our kids to keep a myth going or is it all done in the spirit of magic, mystery and keeping our children’s imagination alive?


I came from a home where there was no “lying for special occasions” and very little in the way of making them special in any way.

We were sort of trapped in the in between space of having no religion, and having a sort of rough far off sort of belief system, which we did not practice, nor understand, or follow —- except it seemed to be the reason that everyone else was super happy over Xmas and Easter and we sort of stood there shuffling our feet slightly embarrassed, trying to avoid any questions around who got what and who got nothing.

I think that if you are in a religious group and you all believe the same thing, then there is a certain connection you have with the group.

Sure you might not be able to do everything you would like, but you are part of a religious group and you gain some sort of joy from that – or at the very least some sort of safety in numbers.

In our case, as kids, we were stuck in the “no man’s land” of religious beliefs.

My mom had a loose sort of belief system which seemed to exclude more than it included.  Because we were not really part of any “formal” religious group we were unable to “share our lack of Xmas, Easter and all the other celebrations with anyone.”

It was really embarrassing (I will not talk for my two brothers and will only talk on behalf on my own experiences) to return to school following the Christmas Holidays and have everyone ask “What did you get for Xmas?” “What did Father Xmas bring you?”

Er.  Nothing. <shuffles feet>


Of course you did not say nothing, because that would mean you had a shite home situation and no one loved you enough to give you anything.  I would either deflect the question or mumble something imaginary item that I had received.

The same can be said for Easter and any of the holidays that ran around.

It made school a really uncomfortable place after returning from school holidays or a weekend where there was a “celebration” of some kind.

At some point I would blurt out “we don’t celebrate that..” and in the stunned silence usually reserved for just the moment where you are just about to be totally osterisized from the group some kid would go “But why?”

I would be faced with a dozen or so sets of eye balls looking at me, waiting for this pearl of wisdom to drop to explain why I did not do the things they did …… er ja about that.

The problem is I had no pearl.

We adhered to certain parts of a religion that we did not practice.  Even at a young age I could see the hypocrisy in this, and how unfair it was on us as children.

{This post is not about the choices my mother made and how those religious choices affected us — I know that is how this is sounding, but it is not that.  I have got over that and moved on.  This is about my choice to practice certain customs at home for my kids, because I want them to have them —- I have no connection in many cases to the religious behind-the-scenes belief, and in most cases I am fairly well read on the origins of many of these customs we celebrate …….}

Not being able to afford presents, eggs and all the other stuff is hard enough to digest as a child, but to stand there going “no I didn’t get anything ….. nope, we don’t celebrate Easter …… no I am not quiet sure…….” was really a traumatic experience that repeated itself over and over in my school career.

Fast forward.

I decided as an adult that my kids were going to have whimsy, and imagination and were going to get swept up in the Easter Bunny, Father Xmas and any other frivolous celebration that does the rounds.

I can stand and argue how they originate in pagan holidays and and and ………… or I can just say “pass me the glitter please” ………. I opted for the latter.

I always realise that moment when my child has “realised” that a certain fantasy creature does not exist – that the Easter Bunny is not real, that there is no Father Xmas or what ever.  You can just see it in their eyes.  They know.

But.  Here is the truly cool part.  They keep the fantasy going for the younger children in the family.

Connor is 100% past believing in any of the fantasy of holidays, but he still loves hunting for Easter Eggs on Easter Sunday.  He does not spoil it for the girls.  He hunts his eggs like a Selous Scout gone rogue!!

I think Georgia might be on to certain things, but her head is so filled with whimsy any way. I think she is going to just leave it and believe in the Tooth Fairy and Father Xmas and any other bits of fancy that comes her way.

I recall a while ago overhearing an adult comment on that fact that as parents we are lying to our kids, and how terrible that was – because these kids would be crushed when they found out that all our lies were …. well lies.

I felt a bit offended ….. for about 12 seconds …… then I thought I would rather my child live and enjoyed the fantasy of fairy dust and being in bed so that Father Xmas does not see you, than giving them the bleak truth that none of it exists.

Adulthood is a rather sober place.  You get to find out too much information then, let them have the fantasy now.


Everything is about what is real and what we see and can touch.  We have lost the magic that is found around us in everyday things.

Except of course if you are Tim Burton —- there is a man where adulthood has in no way got in the way of his imagination and whimsy.


A few years back Connor and I were sitting near some trees and we sat and watched a murmuration of swallows {or starlings – I am not sure}—- it was without a doubt the most fantastic thing I have ever seen.

Starlings Sturnus vulgarus flocking before roosting this shape making in the sky is known as a murmuration Gretna Green Dumfries Scotland December

Starlings Sturnus vulgarus flocking before roosting this shape making in the sky is known as a murmuration Gretna Green Dumfries Scotland December



It went on for about 20 minutes.  We were both sitting there pointing and going “did you see that?” — it was genuinely unbelievable.

I realise that this opens the other side of the discussion that there is enough wonder and amazement in nature ….. there is.  Nature in itself is more fantastic than anything we can come up with.

But no matter how many thousands of Starlings get together, they are not going to come “Trick or Treating…”

I love the fact that my children embrace fantasies and silly characters.  And still can sit and watch National Geographic.

Do I think they are harmed and horrified when they realise that the Tooth Fairy, The Easter Bunny and Father Xmas is not true?

I hope not — if the other two are anything to go by, they will smile at the joy it has given them, they will smile at their younger sister and the joy it still gives her, and they will continue this pagan practice, which we have grown to love and to cherish as part of what we do as a family.

Do I think I am harming my children in some fundamental manner?

No I don’t —- but I could be wrong and some children could react quite badly when expecting the glitter of the tooth fairy, only to wake up and find their dad in his underpants and vest leaning over their bed.

Sure, I think that could be traumatic.

Is Father Xmas still alive and well in your home?


Telling an angry woman to calm down ….

Telling an angry woman

When grannies rock.paper.scissors it on dating sites ….

I found this thread running on Facebook.

You know the place where “if you love your sister” image pops up, and you are emotionally blackmailed into sharing a horrendously photoshopped image, just so everyone knows you love your sister/dog/cat/granny/aunt or what ever else.

That Facebook.

I found this thread last night and holy shit balls it gave me so much joy.

It is parading itself as images from a Russian dating site.

Initially the images were the only things that were funny, but as the day has progressed the comments have got downright hilarious and without a doubt this has been my favourite image of the day.

Here is the image:


granny_dating sites

I think I might have found my tribe.

Check the comment that ran just on this image:



You can go and look at these comments and the others over at :

Here are a few more of the images that were posted, and no, I do not understand what is going on here either – let me know which is your favourite, or don’t and log onto and send the person a message:



































Divorce is a head f*ck …… and sometimes it’s about cauliflower


Divorce is a strange animal.  I am not totally sure it is easier or less painful than dealing with the death of a partner.

At least in death you get to mourn, and then keep a rather idealised perception of your partner in your mind’s eye.  And then get on with your life.  At which ever point it is required, or you are able.

Divorce is akin to having a large plaster applied to your hairy inner thigh, and then just as you think “hey, this is okay …. I am sort of getting used to this” then someone comes along and pulls said plaster off.

Taking with it all your hair, the roots, the first few layers of skin, and basically any fucking sense of humour you thought you had left.  And then you cry, and get to watch it all grow back.  Slowly.  With some ingrown hairs just for ambiance.

Divorce is a game of constant adjustments.

You keep thinking that “okay, so we are at this stage now …. okay, sure, this is not too bad” and then some fucker comes and ask you to please part your thighs slightly so they can get at the huge fucking plaster again and pull it asunder.

The other thing about divorce is the bizarre and strange way that things, that are not meant to bother you, fucking really bother you, and you cannot explain why or how.

If you try, it just comes out in a splutter of rage, pain, torment, and sometimes a bit of embarrassed laughter because you are really not being a trooper and dealing with this like an adult.

Instead you have reverted to a 12 year old who has little in the way of vocabulary, and just wants to sit around sulking muttering “motherfucker” under their breath.

A few weeks ago Kennith chatted to me about the fact that he was thinking about dating.  I though well, we are buds now, let’s just kick that ball around, like buds.  I can do this.  {has inside talk with self ….. self says listen I don’t think you can do this …. I go, self, that was then, I am fine now……. self shakes head}

{I high fived myself in anticipation of what an adult I was being ….. it was a proud moment …… fleeting but proud}

This is me being a mature divorced FROM person.  Not the angry, resentful person who is still hurt and pained by being “dumped” by their partner after 20 years.

Any the who, so there I am being adult, and kicking the breeze and feeling jolly.

I ran into Kennith a few days later at Woolworths.  As you do.

I was shopping for cauliflower to turn into mash. I am not sure exactly what he was shopping for.  Because we are buds he told me he was on his way to a date, you know, like you tell your bud.

I was not sure at that EXACT moment whether to punch him on the shoulder like a mate and say “good on ya” or “punch him in the face” and say “I am your fucking ex wife fruit cake, why the fuck would you want to tell me you are going on a fucking date??”

Did you not read the study notes on the section “shit not to talk to about with your ex-wife at any time in the next 10 – 15 years following a divorce??”  No, you didn’t.

Let me send it to you again with the highlighted bits.

I opted instead to draw attention to the cauliflower in my trolley.  Yes, that is what a confused woman with about a million emotions does when they don’t want to punch other people in the face or the genitals.  Whilst at Woolworths.

Listen if it was Checkers, then it would have been on like Donkey Kong.  This is Woolworths, I would like to visit this store again, I am quite fond of it.

I did not ask about the date …… why?  Because again, I am the fucking ex-wife who is still trying to adjust to being the ex-wife.

You divorced me, see, that means I do not really want to know about how you are getting your jollies or potential jollies!!!

Cheese and rice —– am I the only person who thinks this way.

The last two weekends the kids were meant to be with Kennith the kids mentioned to me in passing they had not been with Kennith the one night on each of the weekends.

Again, it’s his weekend with the kids, and he can choose how to spend it or not to spend it.  I am not going to sit them through an interrogation, really I do not want to know.


I have been down this street, I know how this works.  The less I know the better.

Today they mentioned it again and I was a bit of “sorry what are you saying there kids” and then my friend mentioned that Connor was over at the house, and I was really confused.  She mentioned Kennith went to a “fight thing”, and I thought, but he usually takes Connor with him …………

Okay wait now …. wait now ………. I am feeling a slight deja vu in the Matrix and that his not good for anyone.

I remembered “oh sweet mother of mary, we are friends on Facebook again” <Kennith and I, in case this story is moving too fast and getting a slight rabid feel about it> and I thought “fuck no, please no, I really really cannot do Kennith dating….”

I don’t want to see it.  I don’t want to hear about it.

I do not want my friends stalking on my behalf.

I just can’t do this again.

It can happen out there in the wide world of “I don’t know and I don’t give a fuck” but when I do know then I do give a fuck.  I become the slightly insane person who is not sure why they are reacting this way, but they are and that is not good for anyone.  Especially me.

I sat quietly and scrolled through Facebook and there it was …….

The short answer is no I have no idea why this bothers me.

No, I am not jealous.

No, I am not waiting for Kennith to come calling and beg and plead for me to return.

No, none of that.

But his dating, it bothers me.

I get upset.  And I don’t know why.

And that is why divorce might be worse than dealing with a death.

Dead people do not post on Facebook.

Dead people do not date.

You can create a rather inaccurate but rather fond picture of the dead person, and there is fuck all that can come and fuck it up for you.

I can’t put cauliflower in my trolley and talk to Kennith about his date.

I can’t see his date.

I cannot hear about it from my kids —– I have already done this and it was pain-fucking-ful.  The chances that this might be starting again is just not on my list of  “things I feel like dealing with right now.”

I just am not there.  Yet.  Sorry Kennith, but you and I might need to break up as Facebook friends.

I just do not have the stomach for this right now.  I am not sure when I will.

It’s not me, it’s you.


{On a side bar note, I am doing fantastically well.  Last year and part of this year was a little shall we say rough — well there were some rough patches there.  Some were not my finest hours.  Some I look back at and shake my head.

I bled a lot {metaphorically speaking not like in a menstruation way}, and I really struggled with what was in my head and how I was processing stuff.  

I had some moments there where I thought I would not survive.  I had some moments there that really tested my sanity and my ability to get out of bed and function.  

I got my shit together.  I moved on.   I learnt a lot about me.  I learnt a lot about life and how the universe works.

I am really in a happy place right now.  Life is challenging, but it is not impossible.

I am happy – and that this not a phrase I use often.  

I am still “getting over this thing called divorce” most days I am “yeah, I am so over it” and then other days I am “Listen, I need a moment here” but in general I am doing really well.

What divorce brings with it is this constant need to adjust.  

To the changing phases in each of your individual relationships. and how these put us in situations where we relate to each others.  

Sometimes those adjustments are small and you go, ah well, see that didn’t hurt.  Then there are the other ones where you do “shoo, this feels a bit uncomfortable, I am not sure whether I need an enema or a bit of a lie down, because this does not feel good.”

Maybe it is me — maybe this adjusting, adjusting and readjusting is something I do not do well.  Kennith appears to be coping like a fucking legend over there.  Good on ya mate!

Maybe in time it will be easier and I will not find it such a challenge.  But that is for another day.  Now however, the adjustments make me feel uncomfortable, and I don’t like them.

And I am going to choose to sit them out and not have to see them.}

Sh*tty Mom ….. This book ….. I must have ….. anyone read it yet?

shitty mom

Parenting …. no one tells you about when they get pubic hair ….

Parenting is a very tense relationship.  With adjustments and readjustments and basically some shitty times, with some cool instagram photographs thrown in to keep you mildly sane.

Often you forget it is tense and you lie on the couch and go to sleep.  You will be forced awake (stuff jabbed in your eye, a child on top of you, the cat using you as a clawing post ….. kids screaming and fighting) and then you will start to rethink this entire “relationship” and why you got in to it, and how you can get out of it.

You will imagine various scenarios that usually include leaving your kids with your parents.  Or just plain leaving them on a corner somewhere.

When I say “leaving them with” I mean dropping them off in the dead of the night.  With a sticker stuck to them with instructions like “Feed this one Pronutro, check that teeth are brushed, check she is wearing panties ….. no matter how “like a princess” you dress her, she will look like a thug when you collect her from school.  No I do not know where the clothing is that fits her has gone either.”

You keep thinking you have survived or at the very least just got the hang of this parenting malarkey when your children will present a new facet you were not expecting, and ill prepared for.

Maybe I just have not read the notes on this section of parenting ….. that What to Expect when you are ….. sort of drops off in the toddler years.

Guys there is an entirely area here you should get your shit together on.  What to Expect … The Teenage Years.


Connor is turning 14 in December.   Needless to say he has been 13 for far too many months already.

It feels like last week when he was 9 and he agreed with me most of the time.  His feet did not smell like a chemical experiment involving sulphur and he actually spent time outside of his room – he was polite, and a sweet sweet boy.

This year he has given me a clear insight in how parenting a teenage child is going to go.

Or the alternate but more apt heading “How I am failing at parenting a teen…”

It has not been pretty.   I have not come out of this process covered in glory, in any way.

It has led me to screaming, talking really loud, using pauses to prevent him answering back like “AND AND AND AND …… AND” and basically with what ever we were talking about getting so blown out of proportion that eventually I can’t even remember where I stand on an issue.  Or what we were arguing about.

I am fucking exhausted.

The problem with the exhaustion/feeling defeated is that I am waiting for every conversation to escalate into this screaming, arms waving and door slamming conclusion.

Connor and I have been fighting like maniacs for the last few months.  It feels like since last year to be honest.

If I say something is white, then he will counter it is black and then will try to convince me of his view point.

I do know that “Just fucking do what I told you to do because I am the fucking parent.  OKAY!” Is not the most winning statement one can make as the parent, but holy shit balls, sometimes (too often I am afraid) I lose my shit.  Like lost.  Like the series LOST.  That far gone.

I try and remain reasonable.  I try and remain calm.

But there is only so much backwards and forwards I can endure before I start to look for cakes to throw out the weekend.

We have had a sad shortage of cakes in our home.  I might be going with some Ultra Mel Custard in a carton soon. That one is going to not only need the strong throw, but it needs that propulsion follow through so it bursts as it hits the floor/concrete/dining table.

I am not sure I am on Custard Carton level as yet.

At one several point I thought “you know fuck this shit” and I started picturing packing up his clothing and what ever he needs to survive for the next few days.  Dropping/dumping him at Kennith’s house.

The fact that Kennith was not there at the time was a very small detail I was able and willing to overlook.

Kennith phoned shortly thereafter to ask me something totally arbitrary.  He got hit with the version of me that is screaming, sighing, spittle forming on my chin and basically at the point where I am willing to shift from a three child family to a two child family.


I really was at the end …… the absolute end ….. the place were postcards are sent from …… end of this shit.

Kennith had Connor for the weekend and spoke to him —- I assume.  Connor came back and he was far better.  There was less fighting.  The respite was joyous.

He used to do me the favour of screaming at the girls for me, which I thought was rather endearing.

Then this weekend came along.  For various reasons I was feeling on edge and I just needed the shit to work, you know the stuff to get sorted, everyone to be at the right place at the right time in the right coloured underwear.

Connor was going to a birthday that I could not drop him off at.

I managed to organise my friend to drop him off.  Great.  He let me know that he was going to sleep over at another friend that night — I said fine, “take the bag that has been packed for you – take it with you to the party and then take it with you for the evening.”

There was no confusion there was only one bag.  And who had to take it.

I happen to go past the house, see the bag is there, pick it up and take it with me thinking I will drop it off at his friend’s home later.  I can’t work out why he would leave it, but this is Connor, he has left his school bag at home before.  On his way to school.

He goes to the party – and the mom drops him off at his evening sleep over place.  I am high fiving myself for a plan that seems to be working.

Then I start to get the SMS’s asking me to pack things in the bag …… that he should have with him.

The more I tell him that this is not going to happen (because I am not at home, and the bag is with me) the more the “please moms” start.  It goes on and on and I really start to develop a tick in my right hand eye.

He then escalates this to his school project and starts to ask me when this is going to be ready.

I made it clear from the outset he needed to build this project himself.  By himself, for himself.  He insisted on asking Wayne for assistance and I said no as Wayne has some other obligations and is not going to be able to do it.

He whinged and whined (no shock there) and I said that he needs to ask Wayne, and arrange it with him.  I am telling him not to, he is choosing to, and what ever happens is his problem.

Connor being Connor forgot to mention the project is due for Monday.  This is Saturday night.

He mentions it now in his messages.

I lose my shit.  Like. Shit.  Lost.

I realised I can no longer do messages, this requires a phone call.

I call Connor.  It is not a good conversation.  I am not screaming as much as talking really loud.

What we established is Connor does not have a hearing problem.

He clearly recalls that I told him NOT TO TRY TO GET Wayne to do this project.  What Connor is arguing is that I only told him ONCE!!

It appears once is not the right number.  I asked if he could give me the magic number of repeating myself over and over again …… I think he thought I was being a bit aggressive and told me I didn’t understand.


It was just another situation that deteriorated into both of us feeling angry and hurt and not being heard by the other.

I was really angry.

The amount of planning and organising this day required was akin to the Normandy Invasion.  Then the one person you give the clear instruction of TAKE YOUR BAG THAT IS PACKED AND WAITING IN THE DINING ROOM does not, because he comes up with another plan.

The school project actually did my head in —- totally.  I was so spittle on my chin angry with him.

The problem with these things is as a third person you can offer really good advise as the person looking in, but as the one involved, you lose your sense, you lose perspective and you forget exactly how many years you get for murder.

On the drive home from school yesterday I had a little “it’s late but it is still related to Saturday because I was so freaking angry” explosion.

I drew some lines in the sand.  He still wanted to argue with me, and then I said the thing that you just don’t say to your child “SHUT UP” —- I actually said shut up to my kid.

I just wanted him to be quiet so I could tell him what I needed to tell him, instead of getting into a haggle about every point.  It was either telling him to “shut up” or me shoving a gag down his throat …..

Connor looked at me as if I had slapped him …… it wasn’t my finest hour in parenting.  I have to return the rosette best parenting award on Thursday.


If anyone tells you the most difficult part of parenting is choosing the nursery linen, deciding on breast or formula, and working out whether co-sleeping is a good idea.  Laugh.  Laugh.  Hard.

This all.  This all fades into nothing, when you are sitting there arguing with your child, who unfortunately in some cases can argue you into circles.

I miss the days of the Waltons when no one would speak if Ma and Pa were at the table.  They would all defer to the parents say things like “yes sir” or “yes ma’am” and it all seemed like a very happy place.

I think I am ill prepared for this hormone soaked, pubic hair sprouting phase.

Please tell me this shit gets better ……. soon!


Check out more of Brian Gordon’s comics on >

I do have stuff to blog about … but now I am out of time …. so just quickly now

There have been some really cool things that have happened, which I do want to blog about – but things are a little bit hectic on the work/earning money to buy bread and cheese front, so I just have not had a chance to sit down and put some words into any sort of order.

Quick update/overview/shit I am sorry, there is just not enough time to get more words together:


Everest 3D : Say this recently at @numetro.  Holy shitballs was this a good movie.  It was brilliant.

The film opened the 72nd Venice International Film Festival on September 2, 2015, and was released theatrically on September 18, 2015.[4] It is based on the real events of the 1996 Mount Everest disaster, and focuses on the survival attempts of two expedition groups, one led by Rob Hall (Clarke) and the other by Scott Fischer (Gyllenhaal).

I still sat at the edge of my seat the entire way through.  I contacted a friend John who has been up Everest and a few other vertical shaped mountains and he commented that the terrain was very “real” — I took that to mean, yep, it is almost the exact same as being there.

You know how you see something amazing then you go “I want to do that one day” — this was nothing like that.  I am quite happy here on sea level, without having to dig up possibly empty oxygen bottles in the snow.  Yep, later for that as a plan. But great movie.

Blog Meet-Up : There was a blog meet up.

Not like a big thing with gift bags and awkward sponsor product discussions, but the kind where you drink wine and argue about whether it is okay to test beauty products on animals or whether we should just eat them and turn them into shoes.

It was actually just a lovely dinner with girls who blog, used to blog, might never blog again siting and shooting the breeze.  I can honestly say I liked everyone.  The one thing we had in common was we all seemed to dislike other people.  Which is sort of sweet, endearing and could be a very successful Valentine’s Day card.

Sharon blogged about it here –

Here is the photograph of us ….. for reasons that are unclear the entire universe appears warped and we all have zombie eyes in various stages of “I am going to eat your face….”


It really was a lovely evening.

Apologies for the not quite everyone smiling at the same time — it was that point where cameras were going off, you did not know where to look, to smile and well you needed to sip your wine because your face was getting sore sort of moment.

I made a huge leap in my work life : I have been planning, thinking, trying to motivate myself to start a training arm of my business, but to be honest I have just been too damn scared.

I kept finding reasons why not to, which all started with “yes, I know, but………..” and then I didn’t.  I did my first training workshop today.  I felt sick with the ”
worry of failure” and could only imagine this turning into one huge disaster.

It wasn’t.  It was really great.  I walked away from today’s session knowing I had made a difference in these women’s lives.  Even if it was a small one.

It really made me feel good.  I wanted to high five myself for finally getting it done and starting.

Jana from Moomie:  I am meeting with Jana from Moomie later this month.  She sold the idea as me meeting her for coffee.  I have not broken it to her I do not drink coffee, but getting together for a Rooibos sounds a tad insipid, so I just went with it.

Jana is now talking about a youtube interview ……. right, that should not go well at all.

Will keep you updated if it goes well, I look fabulous and can form words.  Alternatively we shall just never speak of this again.

Right now : I have a touch of light flu.  I have a large wine glass in hand, I am aiming to a hot bath (because by now hopefully the geyzer will have hot water ….. the challenges of living with a dozen bodies) and I am going to lie there and read my book.

In case you are not aware there is the Nando’s Presents Mass Hysteria 2015, Artscape Theatre Centre (14-25 October) – tickets range between R185.00 and R270.00 per person.  I love stand up comedy, so I am really looking forward to the show. Pop along and grab some tickets > or see if you know a sponsor who can organise you a set of freebies. {I do not know anyone of that inner circle.}



Okay that is enough from me.



I actually just wanted to just post this little meme – then I got carried away and wrote stuff.  It made me laugh.  Things that tap into my warped version of reality make me smile.



Later chickens, I need to find some hot water and lie in a bath until I fall asleep.

For him to find.

I have been a bit distracted as of late with putting together blog posts, so I do apologise for that.  I haven’t quite got over the writer’s hump I am feeling, so not sure when it will be “programming as usual” ….. it won’t be today.

I have however decide to shamelessly steal this from For Reading Addicts …. but I went along to look where it had come from originally:

When I worked at BMP, the Head of Television commuted in from
Brighton every day.
He started reading The Exorcist on the train.
He said he thought it was the most evil book he’d ever read.
In fact, he said it was so evil he couldn’t finish it.
So, at the weekend, he went to the end of Brighton pier and threw
it as far as he could.
So I went to the bookshop.
I bought another copy.
Then I ran it under the tap.
And left it in his desk drawer.
For him to find.
As Dawn French says, “If it’s funny it’s not bad taste. And if it’s bad taste it’s not funny.”

Credit to the source: Dave Trott’s mischievous seeding of Creative Mischief

Atelophobia …… Did you know this was even a thing?



Where do I sign up for this club?  You know how you thought you were just crazy and had insane thoughts, then you find out there is an actual word for it.


A bit like this.

Caitlin Moran would be my fantasy dinner guest ….. she is already my girl crush

You know how you are asked (actually no one ever does ask you, unless you are a celebrity and being interviewed by some journalist who has run out of interesting questions, and then asks the interviewee if they could invite 8 guests to dinner who would they be) who you would invite to dinner.

Who would you like to sit down with?—- my list is still a work in progress.   I am pretty sure I would have the following people sitting around a table:

Caitlin Moran

Louis CK

Anne Boleyn

Amy Schumer

Bill Bryson

Lee Harvey Oswald

John F. Kennedy

Edward John Smith – Captain of the Titanic

Assuming you have a table big enough, a chef to make the food, and a ton of wine, it would be great.

I could make a different list tomorrow – depending on my mood then.  So this is not all the people in the world who I think would make good dinner conversation.  I do think Julius Malema may add a touch of “something different” to the evening’s proceedings.

My number one guest would be Caitlin Moran.  I am so girl crushing on her that I can’t even express myself without squealing and flapping my hands around.  It’s all very disconcerting.

I picked up her first book “How to Be a Woman.” 


I didn’t love it as much as I went mental.  Lost my mind.  Totally.

I kept saying things like “why have I not met this woman?” ….. “why isn’t this book compulsory reading for women and girls?” ……. “This is like a How to be a Girl/Woman manual —- this should be issued when you get your vagina, why is this not happening?”

The book made such a phenomenal impression on me that I immediately passed it on to another reader of my blog, and they in turn passed it on —- I do hope that the book is still floating around out there and being passed on in some sort of Red Tent ritual, rather than just lying on someone’s bookshelf.

If it is collecting dust somewhere, feel free to send it back to me —- I would happily read it again.

Read “How to be a Woman” by Caitlin Moran – – your mind will expand, and even if it doesn’t, you will be filled with such mirth and joy that you will smile for days.

I read “Moranthology” published in 2012.  I decided not to send this one around, as I knew I wanted to read it again.

I recently read “How to Build a Girl.” I am not a professional reviewer but when I pass this book along to friends to read all I say is “Fuck this book is funny.  Read it, it is fucking funny.  Stop talking to me, take the book and go and read it now.  Enjoy.”

I recently saw a coloumn written by Caitlin Moran and it deals with the fact that as women, we are smaller in stature, often not as strong, not as big, not as easy to actually kill our partners as our male counterparts.

She covers this subject in a no nonsense manner and makes it clear that women, have to put their trust in someone who is probably able to kill them without even breaking a sweat, show an facet of bravery that can’t be compared or described.

It’s really funny and enlightening — go and read it now:

Caitlin Moran

This should be compulsory reading for all girls and women.

Caitlin Moran takes names, kicks arses and basically rules the universe.  We bow to her brilliance!


Madame Zingara’s …. the wonder, the sheer wonder will make the child in you laugh ….

It’s one of those things I have always been meaning to go to, and for a variety of reasons just never got to.

On Tuesday night I was fortunate enough to be invited to Madame Zingara’s.  {this post is very delayed so my Tuesday is a good month ago ….. but anyway}

Last week I phoned my friend Thelma who is a MZ veteran and asked her: “what do I need to know — I don’t want to arrive and then go *facepalm* I wish I had known XYZ…”

Thelma said it was incredible and I was going to have the best time.  I should wear black, not worry too much about dressing up and visit the “shop” at Madame Zingara’s and I could buy what ever I wanted to jazz up my outfit.

She also advised there was face painting and again gasped that I was going to have such a good time.

I followed her advise to the letter.

My partner Wayne arranged that we had a chaffeur to drive us home at the end of the evening, so that little matter of drinking (and driving) was not going to be an issue.

The only “minor hitch” was when I received a message from him at 16h30 saying we should leave at 17h30.   Of the day of Madame Zingara’s.

I am not a lass that needs extensive time to get ready – I can be showered, throw some makeup on, clothing and what ever and be out the door in say 20 minutes.

At 16h30 I was not even fetching kids yet – the short of it was that at 17h17 I was still in the car trying to get home.  At this point I was doing that slow quick degeneration into that screaming, ranting, freaking out person who needs to get home and at the same time travel back in time if there was going to be any chance of me making it on time.

I was late – we left at 18h00 – I only got home after 17h30 – so bathed, dressed, makeup sort of loosely thrown in the general direction of my face and then rushed out the door.  I think when I arrived I looked a little frazzled and demented …. and my pupils had contracted into small points of black ……

Madame Zingara have set up tent on the Grand Parade in Cape Town {tent not seen in this picture}.


We arrived, got parking really close to the door, which was a godsend as I had managed to wear the prettiest but most uncomfortable pair of shoes in my wardrobe.  You know the pair where your left foot is so comfortable it keeps telling you it is in heaven, whilst your right foot is trying to understand why you have folded it into the Lotus foot position used extensive in China for several centuries.

I kind of limped to the door and then fell in — there is always a step that I don’t see.

From the moment we arrived, I knew this was going to be jaw dropping.  And it was.

The person who greeted me at the door like we were old friends was the smallest “little person” I have ever seen.  He was smiling and jolly, in an extravagant suit with the biggest afro I have ever seen on anyone, bar none.   That gave me a fairly good suggestion that this was not going to be a normal evening.

It is like the circus.  But for adults.

I stumbled around with my lower jaw sort of hanging about, whilst my eyes were flying around the interior.  I cannot actually describe it sufficiently well to do it justice.  I took some photographs, but I look at them now and keep going “no, but it’s not like this it is just so much more….”

It is as if everyone — all the staff — are part of this stage performance and remain in character throughout the event.  Even though they are not on stage, they help to create this sense of fantasy and splendor.

There were various bar areas, the furniture and the drapery were all heavy textured and mainly velvet to the touch.  The tent is like a huge magic area where you are dropped into this fantasy world where everyone is a cast member in one way or another.

No detail was left unattended – every area is a feast for the eyes and if you are in anyway into fantasy, and being carried away to another world, then this is the place for you.  Things are hidden away so you keep discovering them.

My friend had been correct about the MZ shop – and what I thought was without a doubt the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen were the hats.  Not the standard top hat and others that you could buy, but the ones that were supplied by The Little Hattery in Cape Town.

I saw a hat that had the DieselPunk theme to it and you know when you see something, and it doesn’t matter if they are going to charge you three mortgage installments, you just must have it.

These hats were that.

The store had masks, and feather boas and for some unknown reason a plastic pig that made a real sounding pig snort when you compressed it.

I am very disappointed I did not buy that pig.  It’s the kind of thing you would keep on your desk, your friends would covet it, and every time you pressed him and he made that pig snort you would smile.

Other than that minor disappointment – the evening was beyond splendid.

Our table was right in front – we could not have had better seats if we actually sat on stage.  We were served by a waiter dressed as a penguin.


I am not sure of the last time when I have been so entirely happy.

Bob our Penguin waiter (seen above) served us, and he was without a doubt exceptional.  He was familiar and professional, and again just added to everything that was going on.  They had a good wine list and there was some great wine on offer.

Bob told us the tent seats 650 people.  That is huge – the kitchen managed to supply food out at a good pace.  You cannot believe when you are looking at it that this is a tent …. defies the imagination.

We had three choices for starters, and 5 choices for main.  I had a salad that made my toes (only in my left foot) curl and a lamb shank that was melt in the mouth.

I forgot to eat my dessert —- I didn’t even touch it, there was just so much going on at that point that I could not take the time to look down long enough to spoon dessert in {I realise how unlikely that sounds …… its dessert ……. make time …….}

The show was without knowing the right words to use the most incredible thing I have ever seen.  The acts were clever and funny and again, you were filled with this sense of childlike wonder.


{this photograph was taken from our table —- it’s a bit shaky partly because this guy was heading straight for our table —— and I was trying to hold the camera and save the wine}


There were people lavishly attired that would move around the room – for no other reason than to create points of interest.  At no point were you ever left to just sit there and go “okay so when it something starting”  there was always something going on.  Granted I was not always sure exactly what was happening …. but there was always something to draw your eye to.

At one point a line of 8 – 10 people dressed as what I thought might be intricate desk lamps came along and walked through the room whilst we were eating.




I have no idea what they were doing — they were just being desk lamps and then they exited the room and we never saw them again.

A huge rabbit — like the card rabbits from Alice in Wonderland came walking through.  You know as you do.  He was perfectly the way you would imagine a giant rabbit that had just stepped out of Alice in Wonderland to appear.  He was THAT rabbit.


I do realise that at the point in the evening when you are seeing 1.8 metre rabbits walking around is normally when you need to ring for your taxi, but it was that sort of evening.


A large rabbit was just a a rabbit — he walked around a bit, then disappeared.

The show was on the stage, but all the staff seemed to be playing a part in keeping this wild and fantastic world alive for us their guests.

I went to the bathroom at one point — it was freezing outside — there was a guy painted gold, pretty much naked other than his roman skirt, boots and helmet just standing there.  It was really cold — this guy had a nipple stand you could scratch paint off a car with.  He was just standing there on a pedestal, as people were sneaking out for a cigarette or going to the bathroom.

Even your trip to the bathroom kept you in the same frame of mind so that when you got back to the table, you were still all wide eyed and blinking a great deal saying things like “did you just see that….”

The entire evening was easily one of the best evenings I have ever attended.  There was nothing I would change, or make better.



{That is our wine and wine holder in the foreground of the picture —– that is how close we were to the stage}








Oooohhh I forgot, as we entered there were these glamourous waitresses with “free drinks” – I tend to like to choose my drinks so tend to avoid these suprise mixes, but they looked so interesting and were like mini slush puppies.

Then I had one – six later I was telling everyone that these were the best things I have ever had.  Strangers were being told that this was the best drink I had ever had.

I asked the bartender and he said it was vodka, triple sec, lime, grape juice and I think there was something else, which I can’t recall.  They had then put them in ice like you would a slush puppy.

And gave you a little black straw.  Excuse me whilst I lose my last shred of self control.

Like everything else, no detail was left unattended to.

The night was glorious.  Something that will remain with me for years to come.

I do miss the pig I left behind though.  I think he misses me too.

Well done Madame Zingara – the cast, the staff and especially Penguin Bob our waiter was brilliant.

We loved the evening, loved every part of the show — both the one on the stage, and the one that was happening in every inch of the tent.

Also a real round of applause to the face painters — they paint your face in 5 minutes (less probably) — you sit there and think “what finished already” and then he holds up a mirror and you are ….. how the hell did that get there so quickly.  Just more gorgeousness.  They were incredible!

Madame Zingara — sell a kidney, go, go, go —–get tickets —— it is like every strange and wonderful thing you have ever thought of being in one giant lavish gorgeous tent.

And there are penguins as waiters.

{this is not a sponsored post – we bought tickets and paid for everything on the evening — if you discount the free slush puppy vodka numbers, those we did not pay for ….. and I lost count of how many I actually had which may explain why I can’t recall all the ingredients ….. if you happen to know what they are, please let me know, I need to add them to my daily diet immediately}



People lost their minds when I threw a cake out of the window.

People. Lost. Their. Minds.

I do think all of those people with a few more insane neighbours got together and established this group on Facebook “South Africans Against Dagga and Satan” – I don’t know much about dagga, but when exactly was it linked to Satan, but there is a group here with that being a clear link.

Are we not linking sacrificing virgins, and graffiti and I don’t know cauliflower rice to Satanism?

How did we exclude everything else that makes up the 10 commandments, but somehow manage to get left with dagga and Satanism?

Well that is the groups name, but today they have decided that #stikeez are the work of the dark underlord ….

I guess if you give it a title and a Facebook page, you can make it so – this one truly exists with nearly 16 000 members.

I am a bit shocked to see people who I know on this site, but I am going to assume they are there for investigative journalism reasons or pushed like purely to see what the fuck else they come up with.

They ran this post:  {if it is meant to be satire and using humour, it has failed — if it is actually a really warning against an association with #stikeez and satanism, then dear god we need to all have some medication and a little lie down}


Recently, we have been receiving reports regarding small toys, given to children by tellers at an ubiquitous South African supermarket.

We decided to investigate.

“These things are disgusting!” So says a renowned demonisticologist we approached, who prefers to stay anonymous due to his reasonable fear of the all-powerful Pick n Pay management.

“These ‘Stickeez’ are clearly miniature demons,” he continues. “There can be absolutely no doubt these are not harmless toys but satanistic fetishes, designed to soften up our children for subsequent satanic penetration.”

{RM : Satanic penetration ….. erm, this is starting to make me uncomfortable}

Why is Pick n Pay trying to get our children involved in the occult? Are they also behind the recent emergence of the Mozambican demon game “Charlie Charlie” in our schools? The answers to these ‪#‎important‬ questions remain unclear.

One thing is definitely NOT unclear, however:


{RM : Well, there we go, I guess we are all in this together and need to go out and buy a set of cloven hooves and possibly a horn thing ………I don’t know how this works ….. is it an automatic membership as soon as you give them one stikeez or do you wait until you get your membership card in the mail …….. I am so confused}


Please also note that, thanks to the amazing technical prowess of Pastoor Hennie, you can now use a simple and secure online ordering system to buy ‪#‎OFFICIAL‬DAGGA CONFISCATOR and ‪#‎SLATTERN‬ t-shirts and vests online, using a credit card or instant EFT.

Simply go to:

Personally this seems like a rather weak attempt to sell some rather sad t-shirts.  However I do see the value of the Official Dagga Confiscator …. sounds official …. must be legit.


I feel sorry for Larry at about this point.  There is just no way he could have seen it going this way.

{the real possibility exists that this is a fake page — but then what am I missing —- why take the effort to put together a Facebook Page that is neither funny or clever ….. again feel free to let me know what I am missing, as I am missing this entire thing }

Do you remember where you were this day in 1997?

Born Diana Spencer on July 1, 1961, Princess Diana became Lady Diana Spencer after her father inherited the title of Earl Spencer in 1975. She married heir to the British throne, Prince Charles, on July 29, 1981. They had two sons and later divorced in 1996. Diana died in a car crash after trying to escape the paparazzi in Paris ………



I am not sure if other people remember historic moments and where they were and what they were doing.

Kennith and I were up in Bloemfontein for a dog show.  Dog shows normally start at 08h00, which means you are up before 06h00, to pack, walk the dog, and get to the ground before 07h00.

I was walking our Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Willy (Int Ch and SA Ch Timanlee Wicked Willy of Anfield) on this grass patch.  It was cold, not freezing, and Willy had just taken off to run after birds.  The fact that he is a white dog, and running through mud was not lost on me.

I was sprinting — I am sure it looked like running in slow motion, but to me it felt like I was travelling at the speed of light — I heard Kennith calling me from the guest house — I could not hear him, but based on his volume I took it the entire guest house was now awake.

He ran out to tell me that they had just reported on the news that Diana, Princess of Wales had died.  We sat and watched the footage on Sunday morning, 31 August 1997.

Our friend, who we were sharing the room with, Tim, woke up and saw the news.  Tim being Tim commented that he was deeply saddened as he always felt he had a chance with Diana.

I guess we all cope with sadness in different ways.

The day at the dog show was busy as they are — but people were still talking about Princess Diana and her death.  Initially there was not a lot of information, but tons of speculation.

We returned to Cape Town later the same day and the week that followed could only be described as the collective world crying.

I recall watching it on television and basically sitting there sobbing — not the pretty kind where a tear falls out of the edge of your eye and runs down your cheek in a designer line.  No, mine was more snot bubbles and retching with tears.  Your nose red and raw ….. your eye looking much like sheep’s vaginas.  You know that look.

Every day it got worse, as I still was not finished crying from the day before —- and it seemed everyone was crying.  Life just came to a stand still — you were either talking about her, her death, her boys and the flowers outside the palace or you were crying in unison.

There was telephonic coverage across Sky, the BBC and CNN 24 hours a day -and it just did not stop being sad.

The funeral on the 6 September 1997 was a full day of crying.   Her brother’s eulogy made everyone cry the little bit of salt and liquid they may have held in their body.  Elton John’s tribute was literally the final straw ….. if you were not already hysterical with the pain of it all, then that sent you off into the oblivion.

No matter what you may think of feel about her actions – she was a mother, and she left her two children without her love and protection.  I still find thinking about her and how she died left an almost permanent impression on me.

It is hard to grasp that was 18 years ago.

And this woman touched us all in such a profound manner.




Woolworths stepping up to a change in the way they merchandise their store ….


I have written about Woolworths on several occasions – in general I am quite complimentary.

They are my sole supplier of Chuckles, and then there is their rotisserie chicken which is actually finger looking good — not like the other chicken, which once eaten makes you want to deeply consider retching as an option to finish the meal.

I have as usual strayed away from my point.

I can’t recall where this original conversation started but the discussion was about the way Woolworths (and most retailers) pack the small, impulse purchases along the line of where you are waiting for a till to open up.

And the mayhem it creates with parents with young children.

I for one, have often thrown in items whilst standing in that same queue that I do not need, but I do that “eeeehhh” sound and then toss it in my trolley.

It happens.  It’s a phenomenon that has been observed among shoppers, and it’s the reason that Woolworths and other retailers do it.

Basically retailers know so much about us and our behaviour that they arrange their stores using various models to ensure they aim us to the product we probably want.

I love the idea of retail psychology and why we behave a certain way.  There are words like “bum brush” and it appears it is not only me that smells clothing as part of the retail process.

We are all animals, who behave along a fairly clear line of expected behaviour.  Sure there will be the odd person who comes along and goes left instead of right (or right before left) on entering the store.  I can’t recall which is the correct way we “naturally” go and stores design and merchandise accordingly.

The point of the matter is they (the retailers) know what we are going to do, they guide us to do it, and then place products in front of us that we cannot resist.

This long intro brings us to the of RUNNING THE GAUNTLET to the till to pay when the aisles are stacked 3 or 4 levels high with sweets.

You can hear the whining all the way down the aisle, the teeth gnashing and the eventual reverting to crying in frustration.

And that is just from the parents.

Usually the “let’s part with a lot of money after this queue” moves reasonably quickly, but no matter how quick it goes you will have a child going “Mooooooommmmmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee …….. I waaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnttttt this, can I have thiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssssss……….. please, mommie please, mommie please… ”

Mommie is repeated to the point, where ever human being is now staring at that child, thinking ugly thoughts.

“Mommie please” is usually done in an escalating whining voice, dragging each vowel out, and only stops after sufficient people have turned around to stare at the child (not the mother, we all feel for the mother) but we stare at that child a bit like those children act in The Village of the Damned.  Group “think” and together we are hoping that that child instantly falls asleep.  Or disappears.  Which ever is easiest.

Not dead sleep, just sufficient sleep immediately so the whining can stop.

{this is without a doubt why I wear a head set permanently and listen to music at a volume which could be referred to as slightly too loud}

We feel for the moms and dads ….. because shit balls it is not an easy adventure. If you have kids and you have attempting to leave the house to exchange money for goods, then this has happened to you.

If it hasn’t, then either you are lying or you are really able to switch off to your child like no one’s business.

I have a very simple theory about whining and it is probably rooted in my theories behind dog training.

If you are seriously thinking about having a child, get a dog, say three years before.

Spend the time training your dog until you have a well behaved dog who listens to commands, goes outside when you say, does not hop onto the furniture unless invited and also does not fucking eat the couch when you are out.

Dogs are a fabulous introduction to having a child.  There are many similarities.  Seriously if you can get it right with a dog, train them, having a loving relationship with them, but they still know you are the alpha male, then you are nearly 80% there to parenting.

Children are basically designed to get what ever they want.  Do you think they are made with those super big heads, large innocent eyes and the pout so they are good at manual labour?  No.

They are designed to play on our emotions — which may also explain why Donald Trump has done so much with so little and continues to up to this point.  Potential President Elect?  I think that is the sound of the four horses of the Apocalypse right there <makes clippety clop sound with coconut shells from Monty Python skit>.

I know the right words are “guide” and “nurture” but it is almost the same thing.  You are teaching your child not to go outside when you say no, not to climb onto the table when you say no, not to lick the dog when you say no, and most importantly not to fucking eat the couch.

The trick to training a dog, and a child, is to never give in. Not once.

Once you have set a rule/a line/a this is as far as this shit is going to go vantage point.  Then stick to it, even though you want to give in.  Even if you decide “listen I am so over this shit, just let the child have 100kg of straight sugar and I will mainline it in ….” even then, stick to your guns.  Hold back.  Hold firm.


Once you give in, your child learns that the issue is not whether you will give in or not, because you are going to give it —- eventually —- you have just proven that, the question is simply “when” — and when means that the whining and crying needs to be kept up until the point is reached where you go “fuck it, have it already….”

Kids are clever little people.  Even though they have mucus on their faces and can sit in their faeces for 3 hours and have little in the way of verbal communication.  Babies are baisically lumps of lard we carry around for months before they start to exhibit some sort of a personality and are able to keep some of their body secretions inside their body.

When I look at babies I am often left wondering “how the fuck did we become the top predator in this food chain ……. I mean crikes ……….”

Back to the original point – parents trying to get through a stressful shopping experience, after work, trying to rush home before they get food going and having to keep saying NO, NO, NO, NO the entire way down the check out aisle is exhausting. Add a second or third child into that trolley and it becomes the Jim Rose Circus in no time.

For them.  For us.  For everyone except the retailer who is going to get a few “fuck, yes, take it ….. fuck it” and then this reinforces the way the aisles are designed.

In a not so suprising announcement Woolworths have opted to pull sweets out of these aisles – you can read it on their Facebook page

Parents? Good news. We’re going to remove all sweets and chocolates from the check out aisles.

We know that the ‘kids gauntlet’ is a real challenge for those of us committed to teaching our children healthy eating habits… and we want to help make that easier.  Read more about it and people’s comments on their Facebook Page.

— they have not told us what they are going to put in it’s place, so we wait with mild anticipation.

Woolworths I personally think this frees up a lot of space to keep a few bottles of wine displayed.  What would you like to see in their check out aisles?

Anyway, well done Woolworths, you have several moms smiling in joy, and several people who only remember to buy jelly beans whilst standing in the same aisle feeling really annoyed.

Now they are going to need to abandon the aisle and go and find those crazy good jelly beans.  {That crazy person running whilst abandoning her children in the queue would be me if that ever pops up on your security video feed.}

You can’t win it all.  But at least you aren’t losing …..right?

I have said many things in my time, but calling someone a Fat Fuck has not been one of them …. and my life appears to be poorer for it

Recently there was a little activity on my blog and some people laughed, some people took the time to leave tips and suggestion about my parenting techniques, and gave me sage (interpret as totally useless) parenting advise, and others frothed at the mouth.

I fed the trolls a bit — I do see the error in my ways there.  I decided after Staci, I think it was, that really there are just too many stupid people in this world for me to change and try to change their narrow train of thought.  I had only glimpsed the stupid and if exponentially this was moved across the world and there were that proportion of stupid people to blogs, then we really are in a world of trouble, IQ and EQ wise.

While I am here …. I do want to point out something that seemed to anger people, and sent them into a fucking lather — people feel I called my daughter an “ungrateful little bitch.”

If you read the piece.  Like read it, with a sane mind and can grasp the concept of satire.  And READ IT without having to sound out the words aloud because your reading level allows you to comprehend what is in front of you.  Rather than say seeing something, jumping to an assumption and then yourself …. you may notice that I did not call her an ungrateful little bitch — I thought it, because well that was how she was behaving.

Let’s not get into details and stuff, it often spoils a good story.

What is more important is that you get the idea of how to school a Troll from a legend named Ellie.

Cathy dropped by and left this link on my comments page to this rather outstanding post written, by what I can only class as the brilliant and eloquent Ellie over at her blog Have Some Decorum.

I have never actually used the phrase “Fat Fuck” to answer a troll’s comment — it’s just not a phrase that ever popped into my head.  Before.  For anything. But moving forward, I am going to borrow it from Ellie and start to pepper my speech with it when it seems warranted.

Please go along and read her frighteningly clever, tragically sad and at the same time something wonderful blog post.

It starts with the Title,

Dear Fat Fuck,

and a brilliant image of a chicken — which already pushes this blog post into the realm of “oh my god, let’s make this woman president or queen  …… or something with a crown of sorts” ….


Dear Fat Fuck,

Jesus! I knew that when I started this blog that I could not assume everyone would love it. I knew I would have some haters. But here’s the thing, that’s okay, because I can take it. Trust me, I deal with much bigger problems than a few people who “dislike my blog.”

I started writing this blog with the intention of mostly talking about interior decorating but it has evolved into more than that. You may think that I am completely forthcoming with all that I talk about with this blog but I am not, at least not all at once. I tried to keep this blog light and lighthearted even if we talk about some deep subjects. However, there is so much that you don’t know. I intend to be an open book because that’s how I live my life. I do not have secrets and I tell everybody everything. It is not my intention to be Debbie Downer or exude a “woe is me attitude.” That is not who I am. I wake up happy and try to see the joy and beauty in every day. Of course, there is extreme ugliness with my disease that I spare you from. Why would you want to hear all of that? However, I will not spare anyone from it when I write my book. You can either choose to read it or not. But, today is different… Today is going to be ugly. I’m going to tell you some things that will make your jaw drop, I am going to call one person in particular a fat fuck about 400 times, and the unfortunate part of my disease will be exposed a little bit. If you want to quit reading, be my guest, because today I am going to be a total b*tch. However, I will be truthful. Tomorrow’s blog will go back to normal and we will talk about spaghetti carbonara and lasagna but today… Not so much.

I was reading a wonderful blog last night called The Gardener’s Cottage. It’s a really great blog and y’all should check it out. The author of the blog wrote a really sweet blog posting about me and I was going to the comments section so I could write something back to her and thank her for all of her kind words. I started to read all of the other comments that people had written about me… Really thoughtful, loving, supportive, endearing comments… Until there were about 10 comments from readers who basically hated me. Here’s the good news… I don’t care. Here’s the bad news… I do care.

Apparently, some of these readers (and the rudest one posted anonymously, of course) are miffed about my donation page on my blog. Let me give you a few examples of some of their grievances with my donation page…

Please pop along and read the rest of this brilliant way to respond to someone who fucking has no clue what they are talking about.  But then pops along and leaves the equivalent of a taking a shit on your blog.

After reading Ellie’s response, I was convinced that “Fat Fuck” was too dear a term to be used for this particular brave ANON —- but I could not think of a better one that ‘YOU FAT FUCK!!”

Enjoy her blog — and yes, it is a pleasure.

{falls on the floor in adoration – this chick has bigger balls than Hank ……. but most chicks do I am afraid}

I went to a strip club …… and I haven’t ridden a donkey before either #justsaying

I have never been to a strip club.  I have also never had an STD nor have I ridden a donkey.

I figured as we were going into things I had not done, we would cover a few.  Jump in at any point and let me know stuff you have not done.

I sometimes get an idea into my head that usually starts with me saying things like “come on, lets go to XYZ, it’ll be fun …. you will see ……….”

It is seldom is fun, even I realise that 15 minutes in, but I hang in there when quitters quit.  Me being a winner and all.

Saturday night, I decided I needed to go to a strip club. Not a strip club where boys strip.  But a girl one.  I was quite sober when I came up with this idea.

Listen if that is what you do for fun, a hobby or for a living, then all the power to you.

I am happy you have found something that makes you happy and you get paid to do it.  Personally I cannot watch a man strip. There is something fundamentally wrong with a guy trying to make sexy eye contact and take his black socks off at the same time.

It might just be me, but when I watch a guy stripping —- and it is not like this happens a lot —– I start to feel embarrassed for him.

I realise that this reeks of sexism and double standards, but boys need to be either dressed or undressed and avoid the gyrating to music with a heavy bass in between, and pants that rip off on the sides with the aid of velcro.  If you cannot rip your pants off on your own, then don’t fucking rip them off. climb out of them one leg at a time like the rest of us.

Again if that is your thing —– good for you.  It’s not my thing.

But I have moved away from my story.  Tangents and stuff.

I wanted to go a strip club – the standard kind where woman strip.  I also did not feel like driving into Cape Town to Mavericks, and felt I wanted to start off slowly/more sleazy and aim to something in the Northern Suburbs of Cape Town.

Yes, I do realise the level of errors in that set of decision making.

Possibly my codeine ingestion was too high that day.  Possibly I needed a bigger glass of wine and a lie down, but I managed to convince someone ELSE that this was a good idea and off we went.

In his defence he kept telling me repeatedly, and louder that this was NOT a good idea.

Even on the drive up there, there was nothing but bad energy about this place.  Without naming names, it had the word Goose as part of it’s signage.  And a large goose on it’s sign.

The warning signs were white and about two meters high with a FUCKING GOOSE in it.  I think the goose might have had a bow tie on …. but some of the details got a bit hazy due to the sheer amount of information coming in at this point.

You know when things go bad, and someone says, did you see any signs before?  The answer here is “yes officer…”

I figured, well we have sunk this low, let’s just go in.  In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

And in we went.

Saturday night – if there were 12 clients there were a lot.  I didn’t do a formal head count.

I think there were 5 girls whose job it was to dance, take their clothing off and make us feel welcome.

I knew when I looked at the wine list that we should leave — or at least disinfect our hands,.  I wanted to make this evening work.   I wanted to experience the entire strip club thing.

How bad could this be??  Right?

I ordered wine —- I knew it was going to be bad, the wine list was really terrible.  I drink almost anything, so for me to hesitate over a wine list because I was trying to pick the best of the worst must give you an idea how “skeptical” this experience was going to be.

I asked if I could take a photograph of the wine list (as evidence in case I went to ER and had to have my stomach pumped). The waitress looked at me as if I had just asked her if I could sell her child on Gumtree.  She genuinely looked scared.  And told me NO in that hushed whisper only used my kidnapped children and that little boy in Sixth Sense when he says “I see dead people………”

I was asking for a photograph of the wine list, not a vaginal swab.  But.  Okay, so no photographs ….. packs phone/camera into bag.

The first performer appears on stage.  Now when I think of a strip show this is sort of what I had in mind ……



It appears not only was I aiming a little high —– I really had no idea, but Hollywood has been lying to us —- yes, you heard it here, first.  I had moved into the world of delusional at a pace that made my head spin.

What I saw was a woman who might have been a foreign national who looked like she was dancing to get her passport returned.  And she still had three months ahead of her.

There was no clever outfit — there was just hooker heels, a really bad dress (China Town bad dress) and very small panties …. I could see them through the dress.

This is not because I have great vision, the dress was a lot less than more.  And again, you would be hard pressed (no pun intended) to think of this as sexy.

You know when someone is going through the routine and it is about as sexy as “Everyone Loves Raymond” …… imagine “Everyone Loves Raymond” as a strip show (with the mom), then you would pretty much have it.

It was sadly disappointing.  I think for the both of us (her and I).

One bottle of wine in.  I thought I would solve the problem and suggest let’s have another (bottle of wine) to just see if this is going to get better.  It didn’t.  The wine nor the show.

There were two table dances going on not too far from us.  The girls wore tiny tiny strings of panties.  I know it is a strip club I understand where this is going.

The problem is that when it went there. I had to look away.  Not because I was offended by their sexuality or the fact that this was starting to look at feel like a gynecological exam, but with no hands, it was just awful.  I have had pap smears that sort of looked more pleasurable.

I felt sorry for the women dancing …. this was Saturday night, busiest night of the week ….. and they were sitting at the table next to us chatting to each other, because there were just no clients.

If I was on stage stripping, I would be a little offended that someone left the rugby game on repeat on the big screen television.  Let’s weigh up girl on stage stripping, or watching rugby game on repeat and mute.

At a certain point I started to watch the rugby game.

It was hellishly bad.  {not the rugby game, that wasn’t too bad}

My hopes and dreams of entering this over sexualised world where there is good music, clever dance routine and enough sexual tension to make your eyes bleed, was a bit of a let down.

I believe Mavericks is meant to be far better.  Next stop on my “things to do on evenings when you do not have the kids” but I might need some time so my corneas can heal.

The things I do for you my readers in the name of investigative journalism.  Good grief!!

Trolls and idiots ….. especially the ones named Hank …..

I have been blogging for several years.

I have been on social media for several more.

I am used to the usual on-line bullying, trolls arriving and basically taking a shit on your door step in a brown paper bag and generally say things that are painful and hurtful.

5 years ago I had what can only be described as a breakdown. I had various other things happening in my life that I was not coping with.

There were 3 “social media” things that had happened in quick succession.

One I caused using poor judgement at work, one I happened to just be standing there and got caught in the fall out of a non related incident, and one had nothing to do with me but it felt like it was aimed at me.

People hiding behind “usernames” and “gmail” addresses and the like, get terribly brave and feel very little in the way of any real interest in you as a person, the subject and the damage they do.

They sweep in under the cover of darkness, cause chaos, step away like arsonists and watch the building burn, without taking any responsibility because “I just commented ……” – they want the building to burn, for no other reason than they have one match and in many cases know how to get a fire going.  Quickly.

I admit to saying stupid things sometimes – both in life and in the land of O’s and I’s.

I do hope that I learn from my errors, and when possible I apologise.  I accept we are all jerks given the right circumstances – and that given a few hours or days to reflect we realise that.  In time one hopes to be less of an arsehole than you are today, and each day get a bit less arsehole’ish.

That was 5 years ago – I have moved on a great deal from then.  I am not totally immune to trolls and people who are idiots, but their effect on me is less and they no longer consume me.

I realise it is their shit, and not mine, and I do not have to take it on board.

I realise they are trolls.  I realise their opinions, like arseholes, are things we are all entitled to one (sorry I know it is an old jab, but there we go) – before I would believe what they said, now I do tend to shrug it off for the most part.

They/Trolls/The Hanks in the world do not know me.

They have a perception of me, and their assumptions are just that — assumptions without much in the way of fact.  {if you read this blog and assume everything here is fact, then I have a bridge for sale I would like to talk to you about}

Yesterday a gentleman named Hank left a comment and it vexed me.

Not because he commented, not because he sounded like a ball-less turd with no sense of humour and an unholy obsession with the speed of cakes flying around on the N1.  He used ONE post from my blog to make a judgement about me and my parenting style.  (even if he read all 1030 or how many ever there are, that still does not mean he knows me.)

Again Hank, I actually do not give a flying fuck about your opinion.

The blog post in question for the most part made it obvious who has children and is coping with similiar stuff, versus people who do not have children and think because they have testes and possibly access to ovaries this makes them experts on parenting.

But none of that matters.

What matters for me — is that YOU — who does not know me and who told me you do not read my blog – attacked my children.

Listen Hank, I am not quite sure of which corner of the shit heap that is this universe you crawled out from under, but there are many things you can do or say to a blogger/mom.

Insult me, accuse me of making bad judgments,  not understand why the odd cake needs to be launched from a moving vehicle, and not grasp what it is like to fight with children over pieces of plastic.

I accept all of that from you with an open mind and to a large degree a bit of a shrug and a “ah well…. he is probably a bit of a c&nt”

Hank, I am on board with that.

If you want to be the biggest c&nty c*nt there is, then I support you in that.  I am there for you mate, right behind you.  I will wear “Hank is a C&nt” lapel pin if you need me to.

The part where you lost my respect (not that you ever had it, but I thought I would throw it in just so I appear classy and stylish) and you really stepped over the imaginary line that exists in the world, is the part where you deemed it was okay to comment about my children and who they are in this world.

You get that part – MY CHILDREN!!

Did you have CRACK for breakfast yesterday???

I wrote a very emotional post last night and posted it earlier, and decided to put it on “password protect” – if you know me, contact me and I will send you the password.  I don’t think it is for general consumption.

I agree it is way to much venom to put straight out there and takes away from the fact that a fellow named Hank felt it was okay — O-FUCKING-KAY —– to come out and attack my children and refer to them as delinquents – potential delinquents.

Hank, I dare you – I dare you to come and find me in public and say that to my face.

I actually dare you, seeing as you appear to have balls as big as burgers, to walk up to any mom in Pick ‘n Pay or any other retailer and offer her advise, criticism and then insult her children whilst she is doing the best she can, in the best way she can.

You know nothing about what it is like to be a parent and cope —- even if you are a parent, parenting your children or child, does not make you an expert on some one else’s – no more than owning a car makes you a motoring journalist expert.

Last night I was at Pick ‘n Pay buying the odds and ends, my kids were at home.  I watched a frazzled mom with two toddlers in her trolley going ape shit — like totally ape shit.  She looked like she had just fought the gladiators, and then for shits and giggles had gone to pull the hair off a tiger’s arse on a dare.

This woman was exhausted and one “whine” way from a full fledged breakdown.

Her kids were screaming.  Mental because she only had one #stikeez – she had clearly miscalculated and her bill was less than R300.00 so she got one #stikeez.

I got it. I stood there with my wagon of groceries and I wanted to go over to her and rub her shoulders, maybe play with her hair in a soothing manner  and say “fuck I hope they go to sleep early” – but I didn’t.

I also did not judge her and I did not pull any low blows — because I get it.  I fucking get it.  I have been there, and most of the readers on this blog have been there – we fucking live there. Your kids screaming like banshees whilst everyone else’s children appear so well behaved it makes you want to throw up.

Instead Hank you hide behind your work, email address (troll error 101 —- are you a virgin at this, or do you usually leave your work IP details behind for bloggers to find you?) and give me parenting advise.

Insult me, insult my children, and for good measure insult the people who have read this blog and commented.  Are you actually really and truly that much of a does??  I am overwhelmed by you.  By the sheer level of does you have managed to squeeze into one shitty comment.

My children have been through a divorce, a death and several life changing events in the last two years.  My kids are fucking awesome kids.  I commented about that in the earlier post and here is what I added there:

Like super FUCKING stars.

My son attended an eisteddfod this week and scored really well, even though he only had two days to prepare.  He donates his time when he can to causes that are close to his heart.  You understand he is 13 – he is 13 and volunteers.

What the fuck do you do when you are not lambasting bloggers?

My second daughter is stellar at Mathematics and might even one day get a job at Discovery Health (see what I did there) as a statistician. She is kind, loving and does not have a mean bone in her body.  She has friends who adore her.  She is kind, patient and will hug anyone who stand still long enough.  She can recite the periodic table — she is 10.

My other daughter is a fire cracker – she is bright, clever, fucking funny and I adore every inch of her.  She sleeps with me at night and drapes her chubby hand over my shoulder so that she lies close to me – she has slept with me since her father and I got divorced – kids sometimes need a bit of extra time and the close touch of a parent.

You understand right?

She is loved and adored.  She thinks our Nannies daughter is her sister —- I have not corrected her.  Why should I?

{does this in any way sound like maladjusted delinquent children?}

Hank – after today I will not give you another thought.  Though when I do, the fact that your name rhymes with Wank and your mom called you that, will make me smile a little childishly.

I do hope that even if you hate this blog, detest my tone and use of language and think my children are maladjusted little so-and-so’s you keep in mind, fuck with a blogger, go ahead, do that, in general we have skins that are fairly thick — but fuck with a mom’s children and you my friend make yourself out to be the biggest arsehole there is, and what ever else you might do or say is null and void.

I do hope that one day if you have the great fortune to become a parent, someone comes over to you, insults you, your wife, your child and your parenting style. To your face.

I do hope this happens to you, and you can reflect then as I hope you are now, that you my dear sir, are an arsehole of a proportion that I cannot even begin to fathom.

I do hope you never read this blog again.

I do hope that you live a long’ish life, but if you happened to die in a cake accident, I might not be too cut up about it.

My three kids and I are going to go off and skip down the hills singing that song “The Hills are alive with Music” —- I do hope you go and fuck yourself.

Yes, I said it.  But it is because I care.

Protected: I know Hank rhymes with Wank, but that seemed too easy ….

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Pick n Pay’s twitter #fail! {Georgina Guedes writes for News24}

So, earlier this week, Celeste Barlow, a mommy blogger (sorry, horrible term), wrote a blog piece that got her a lot of eyeballs (another crap term, sorry). My mom friends republished it – they laughed and commiserated – because it clearly touched a nerve.

The nerve is this: Pick ‘n Pay is apparently running a campaign in which, for every R150 you spend, you get a toy called a Stikeez (I don’t know what the singular form is). This means that if you have more than one child, your minimum purchase had better add up to [number of children] x R150.

Barlow has three, so her minimum purchase has to be R450 – and apparently her kids frisk her as she gets in the door.

The blog was funny. It’s nice to read something about parenting that isn’t drowning in saccharin “we are all winners here, we love all the brands” sentiment. She swears. And she signs off by wishing the Pick n Pay marketing team Chlamydia. It’s very merry.

Read the rest of this article here:


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