SGSA: Culture and cuisine

Well, since culture comes from history, let's start there. SA history is, in a word: complicated. I can’t possibly do it justice here*, but let’s just give you the 60-second synopsis:

Cradle of humankind — pristine wilderness** — route to India — weird European politics — Portuguese explorers — Dutch settlers — persecuted French Protestants — English colonisation — Great Trek — bloody skirmishes with “the natives” — bloody Anglo-Boer skirmishes — Republic — apartheid — resistance — Nelson Mandela — 1994 elections — Rainbow Nation.

There. Are we all caught up now?

Our culture is as complicated as our history. But I'm too lazy to go into all that. To generalise, then: South Africans are friendly, outdoorsy and sporty. (Not me, though. Obviously.) Capetonians will tell you Joburgers are aggressive, money-obsessed yuppies who can’t drive; Joburgers will tell you Capetonians are sleepy, cliquey snobs who can’t drive.

There’s something of a class divide between the (more urban) English and (more rural) Afrikaans. There is, obviously, a class divide between white and black (and, for that matter, coloured*** – not the same as black, in SA – and Indian); there is also a class divide between the new black elite and the masses still struggling to stay alive and well in the townships, or the rural backwaters. It’s a very, very complicated country.

But you will notice one thing: almost everyone you see has a big smile. True. To my cynical friends back home: if you disagree, try leave the country for a few months, then go back. You will notice it. It’s amazing. Despite everything we’ve been through, SA is a happy country. (Where else would a dance serve as political protest?)

It's also a country that eats remarkably well. There is an Afrikaans word: “lekkerbek”. You might translate this as glutton, or epicure, depending on personal prejudice. But who wouldn’t be a lekkerbek with all that to enjoy?

In Cape Town or Joburg, you can pretty much pop into any random place you see on the street and enjoy a good meal (barring extreme bad luck). There isn’t, ostensibly, a strongly defined South African cuisine — we have the usual profusion of Italian, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Lebanese, French, fusion, etc etc, but there are certain characteristic menu items: Malay curry, smoked snoek (a strongly flavoured fish), malva pudding, Cape brandy tart, Dom Pedro (essentially a whisky milkshake, or made with other liqueurs).

More deliberately South African fare includes ostrich steak (ostrich tastes much like lean, extra flavoursome beef; the chocolate-chilli sauce it comes with at Madame Zingara’s in CT is already legendary) and boerewors (a coarse textured, spicy, herby sausage). If you eat at The Ritz in Sea Point — a proper, cheesy, overpriced revolving restaurant, but with rather fabulous food, and you really can't complain about the view — you can sample crocodile carpaccio and Namibian gemsbok fillet. Afrikaans cuisine borrows from Malay and other traditions (with bobotie, for instance: a sort of crustless mince pie involving raisins, with egg on top) and is big on stodge and sugar. Even the vegetables are cooked with sugar, and koeksusters (essentially braided dough soaked in syrup) are toothachingly sweet. (I love them, obviously.)

Traditional African kos (food) revolves around a staple diet of mielie pap (maize porridge) and spicy sauce, with as much meat as can be found. Once upon a time mopani worms were eaten for survival when meat was hard to come by; now they're just a crunchy snack.

Biltong (smoked meat, anything from beef to springbok) is the number one bar snack and of course in Cape Town, there is an abundance of seafood (I especially recommend the calamari).

And don’t forget to visit the wine farms, the cheese makers, the pick-your-own orchards…

_____

* Plus, being a victim of Christian Nationalist education, I’m embarrassingly ignorant and am just now reading up to improve my knowledge.

** That is, it was bloody hard to get to.

*** An apartheid word for those of mixed race. The PC term these days is “formerly known as coloured” or something of that ilk, although generally “black” is preferred for all categories known, under apartheid, as “non-white”. Complicated, huh?

SGSA: Art and architecture

Being the Cradle of Humankind and all, we have ancient cave paintings, as well as tons of ethnic crafts (beading, weaving, carving etc – of course a lot of those traditional souvenirs you’re seeing were probably made in the Congo), and there are some rather powerful artworks that came out of the apartheid era (like the one above). And then (oh dear) there’s Tretchikoff and Beezy Bailey…

We’re a bit short on ancient monuments, although we do have at least one distinctive (and rather lovely) architectural style – the Cape Dutch farmhouse. Cape Town’s socalled Castle is a squat, pentagonal fort. Rhodes Memorial is a weird neo-classical temple that’s all about looking at the view, away from the building. Which I think is the main thing with the city: why look at buildings, when you could be looking at the landscape?

Oh yes, and Joburg has some skyscrapers and stuff.

Update: How could I forget? There's a rich performing arts tradition in all sections of SA society, from gumboot dancing and pennywhistle jazz (as borrowed by Paul Simon on Graceland) to physical theatre, a form we have made peculiarly our own. The Cape Town ballet is particularly good, too. SA has produced some brilliant literature, not so much great films. While Capetonians will tell you eagerly about their booming film industry, mostly that means foreign crews are using the city as a location — indigenous product is still scarce.

ps

While I'm talking into the wind, let me just say that it's raining, and I want to knit, and I have way too much to do, and Parcelforce sucks, and I need chocolate.

*sulk*

Huh?

Has Blogger gone nuts while I was away, or is it just me?

I've lost the ability to set time and date on posts. Plus, the BlogThis! button opens a new post window, but doesn't insert a link. Any thoughts on this? Anybody?

SGSA: Geography and climate

As mentioned in the introduction, we have quite a lot of both geography and climate. It’s a fair-sized country, but as far as most visitors are concerned, it consists of Cape Town, Johannesburg (Joburg or Jozi), game farms, and everywhere else. This is probably quite reasonable; Durban is our third city*, but don’t go to Durban. Seriously. Don’t. The streets are full of beach bums and the (small, pebbly) beaches are full of jellyfish. Plus, it’s insanely hot and humid. Skip it.

Joburg (climate: hot and dry in summer, with superbly operatic thunderstorms; cold and dry in winter) is strictly for living in, doing business in, or passing through. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s a fabulous place to live – incredible weather, great people, brilliant nightlife. I just can’t ever think of anything to advise visitors to do. After all, you can’t spend all day in restaurants. Although I did try. (Actually, the theatre is excellent. But that still leaves a lot of daylight to fill.)

Cape Town — known as the Mother City, because European settlement started here — is quite possibly the best city in the whole world, ever. (I did warn you this wasn’t going to be an objective guide.) Unfortunately, Capetonians are aware of this, which makes them not only insufferably smug (I include myself in this statement) but also quite greedy. Prices have rocketed in the past few years, but it’s still a relative bargain for those with hard currency (the SA rand is a distinctly downtrodden beastie, poor thing). Frankly, it would be a bargain at any price, because just look at it! Spectacular mountains, forests, wine farms, beaches** and, oh yes, hordes of jaw-droppingly beautiful people. They’re all models, of course, and won’t deign to actually speak to you, but the ogling is good.

Also, CT (climate: warm to hot in summer, cold, wet and very windy in winter; extremely changeable and breezy all year round — it was originally dubbed the Cape of Storms, before some politically motivated rebranding as the Cape of Good Hope) has smartened up a whole lot from what it used to be, and is finally fulfilling its long-time claim to being “cosmopolitan” and “European”. Ten years ago, the V&A Waterfront was the big draw; now, head for De Waterkant. Named just to confuse Dutch speakers, it actually is a whole separate area — not all that close to the water, truthfully — and much, much sexier.

Cape Town is also small enough, and close to nature enough, to provide a lot of entertainment you might not expect from a "city". Go down to Cape Point, where smart-alec locals may try to convince you you can actually see the dividing line between the Atlantic and Indian oceans***, and you can spot whales (in season and with luck), ride ostriches, and otherwise enjoy the bounty of nature. (On a plate. With lemon juice and tartare sauce. Mmmmm.)

It's important to note, though, that you shouldn't actually try to get anything done in Cape Town. Firstly, why waste good beach time? Secondly, why waste the locals' good beach time? Centuries of sunshine and good dope have completely addled Capetonians' collective brains. (Again, I'm including myself in this.) As a group, we are friendly, cheerful, and pretty damn ineffectual. Need proof? Okay. Get in a car. Head downtown, towards the Waterfront. Near the beginning of the N2 motorway****, you will see a road to nowhere. Literally. There's a great big highway in the sky, that stops shortly after lifting off from the ground. Close by, but less often seen, is another. These were two parts of a flyover that never quite made it, because one of our sun-struck civil engineers made a miscalculation. Oops. That was decades ago. The road has of course been rebuilt, but the evidence lingers on. Obviously, pulling it down would be quite pricey, and besides, by now it's a landmark and source of strange pride for the denizens of Slaapstad*****. I do wonder, though, why nobody's used that structure to build, I don't know, a cool party venue or something underneath...

So much for the cities; what about the game farms? Well, there are plenty of them, to be sure, in all styles ranging from serious bushwhacking to keep-those-dirty-beasts-away-from-me luxury. Personally, I’m dead keen on the deluxe end – I’ll take cocktails, swimming pools and room service, please; hold the spiders, and don’t dare kick me out of bed for any of those ridiculous dawn game walks – but the downside is, a lot of those places are fairly low on actual wildlife. Still, if you want to trip over rhino****** just outside your own front door, while still enjoying five-star comfort, I know just the place. (Huge ants, though. Enormous.)

Oh yes, and of course there’s plenty of countryside that isn’t in the game farm category. Tell you what. Take six months off, hire a car, and call me for guidance. You might be able to fit in most of the must-see priorities. If you work at it.

_____

* Well, sort of. We actually have three capitals, and Joburg isn’t even on the list. Cape Town has parliament, Bloemfontein has the supreme court (and absolutely nothing else), and Pretoria has the Union Buildings (where they actually run the country from). But Pretoria’s practically a suburb of Joburg these days anyway.

** CT beaches are, however, a trap for the unwary. The most popular beaches – Camps Bay and Clifton, with the sunset views – are strictly for showing off your designer bikini, the one too expensive to actually get wet. If you want to swim, head to the other side of the mountain, where the currents won’t actually freeze the teeth out of your head. Boulders is nice. And it has penguins.

*** Actually, the oceans meet at Cape Agulhas, a fair drive to the east. But Cape Point does see the meeting of two ocean currents, which explains the warm beaches/icy beaches phenomenon.

**** I do believe it's also adjacent to Oswald Pirow street. Oswald Pirow, one of SA's more infamous statesmen, was basically a Nazi. While a frenzy of renaming has swept SA since 1994, this street appears to have been left alone. See? Sleepy Cape Town.

***** An Hilarious Pun. Slaapstad=sleepytown; Cape Town in Afrikaans is Kaapstad.

****** The friendly, square-jawed ones, of course. Nothing you wouldn’t want to trip over.

The Scroobious Guide to South Africa

In the 1980s South Africa was very much a global pariah. With sanctions and censorship both in full swing, we didn’t get to see much of the outside world, for good or ill. In consequence, the apartheid government drove a massive “stuff you, world!” campaign — creative efforts such as making petrol out of coal were aimed at proving, to South Africans as well as forruners, that we didn’t need anyone else.

One aspect of this was the tourism advertising slogan: “The world in one country”. Now that I’ve seen a (very) little bit of the world, I can confidently assert that this was an Untruth. Search as you might, you will not find the Eiffel Tower, nor the Great Wall of China. We’re a bit low on pyramids (either Egyptian or Aztec), leaning towers, ancient castles, grand canyons, igloos and such. So the apartheid state lied. (Frankly, I’m shocked.)

We do, however, have tropical rainforest, desert, mountains, rocky coasts and sandy beaches, buzzing cities, sleepy hamlets, hippie outposts, penguins, ostriches, elephants (including some that are small and furry), baboons (lots of 'em), flamingoes, eagles and a truly terrifying parade of insect life. We also have a history rich in heroes, villains and nutters, a glorious climate, and some of the best food in the whole world, ever. Join me, if you will, for the Scroobious Guide to South Africa — it may not be objective, but the research is frrrresh.

Post-holiday correspondence

Dear Cape Town,

My, but you've grown up. Love what you've done with De Waterkant. You're so sophisticated these days. So sexy. I mean, you were always fabulous, but wow. I'm impressed.

And you've done a great job of looking after my mountain. I do miss you, you know. Especially now you've shown me this new, smarter side. Trying to win me back? I could be tempted... Anyway, thanks for putting on such a great show while we were there. The weather! The food! (Actually, my thighs would like to have a word with you later.)

By the way, where was everyone? It was great not having to fight off hordes of tourists everywhere, but honestly, where did you put them? Are they really all in Plett this year? Or was it the fuel crisis keeping them at home?

Which reminds me. About that fuel crisis. And the weekly power cuts. Temper, dear! Isn't it time to put such childish things behind you? I know, I know, responsibility is so boring. But these adolescent tantrums... it just doesn't suit your new image, darling. Try to walk the talk, hm?

All right then. You're so lovely. If you really want me back, we might be able to work something out. But you're going to have to sort out that temper of yours. Oh, and you might as well know, until you can offer me fast, cheap broadband, it's just not going to happen.

Ta-ta, darling. Kisses. Love you always.

Scroobious.

***

Dear London,

Okay. I get it. You're in cahoots with Cape Town. The mothers — mine, Beloved's, the Mother City — pulled some strings, and you agreed to give me the cold shoulder. Bravo, well done and all that, you succeeded admirably. Grey skies, bare trees, gloom all around, very effective contrast with sunny SA. Tesco was a nightmare, you got that right too. Ambushing me with fights with Parcelforce and British Gas — bit over-the-top, no? But okay, okay, you've made your point. Now give it a rest. We're stuck with each other for now, so just deal, okay?

Okay.

Happy Christmas.

Scroobious.

Things to do in December

1. Rub my sister's incubating belly. Meet my nephew and godson for the second time.

2. Talk to much missed old friends. And talk some more. And some more. And have another drink. And keep talking. And see more friends. And so on.

3. Spend five days in the glorious African mountains, lolling by the pool, gazing out over valleys, watching wild animals, doing very little that can't be done with a cocktail in my hand.

4. Reassure myself that Cape Town is still there. Bask in its glory.

5. Eat my own body weight in seafood, at a stunning open air beach restaurant, over the course of a mellow and champagne-fuelled afternoon, for about the price of a pizza here in the Big Smoke.

6. Walk in the forests. Walk on the beaches. Wonder why I ever left.

7. Picnic in Kirstenbosch with waatlemoenkonfyt and Simonsberg camembert with green peppercorns.

8. Long evenings with glorious Cape wines, food* and friends, under the Constantia trees or overlooking the sea.

9. After three weeks of this, get back to London, and let my cats console me.

...Things I won't be doing in December:

1. Selling any more needles. But that's okay. We've done remarkably well so far. *happy glow* Roll on January...

2. Reading Tis the Season. More's the pity. You don't have to share my pain, though. Go forth and giggle!

_____
* Yes, it's ridiculous how much I'm looking forward to the food. Sorry, but SA restaurants are just so much better than in London. Really. Also, Simonsberg cheese, and konfyt. Mmmmmm.

Eureka!

I think I have discovered the secret of success.

Don't sleep.

This works on so many levels. First, you get more done. Second, you lose weight. Third... um, you get more done.

Right now, though, it's the getting thinner part that has me excited. I've just realised that when I'm sleep deprived (as I have been all this week), I feel slightly nauseous all the time and hence, no appetite. Is genius! I will be thin and elegant and successful!

Do not doubt the link between thin and successful. It's perfectly obvious. Especially, but not only, for women. Thin people get better jobs, get paid more, get more opportunities. They just look more successful. And appearance, we know, is all.

So from now on, I will stay up until 2am every night. Every. Night. And do lots of useful things (or at the very least, knit in front of the TV). And I will sleepwalk through my days being grumpy and sick, therefore more aggressive and less hungry. My first million can surely not be far away.

Doesn't sound like a fun holiday, though. Tell you what: I'll start this Success Strategy after my return. Meanwhile, sun, sea and sauvignon blanc await. Sleep, too. Mmmm... sleep...

Don't expect anything more to happen around here till Christmas. Have fun without me.

Terrible thing, procrastination

In five days I get on a plane for a very long-anticipated trip home. Three of the intervening days and evenings will be fully occupied with such trivialities as work, getting a haircut, taking the cat for a blood test, catching up with a friend just passing through London, and panicked last minute Christmas shopping. (To you, it's early days yet. To me, since gifts must be packed by the time I hop on a plane at 6.30am — yes, insane, we'll have to book a cab for 3am — on Friday morning, it's last minute.) Leaving two "free" days for those other small details:

Huge (and really annoying*) editing project
Re-ordering stock for Purlescence
Preparing a knit design submission
Completing the knit project that is one of my Christmas presents
...and so on.

Of course, almost all of these things could have been done ages ago, but, um, weren't. As can be said, too, of my completely failed plans for my blog birthday (tomorrow). I wanted to do something special, but it would take time, and I'm kinda busy. So I realised this morning, my present to my blog will have to become part of the great tradition of handmade birthday presents: it'll happen. Just not right now. (A common knitter's rule of gifts is, it has to be delivered within a year of the occasion for which it was intended. That's acceptable lateness.)

Meanwhile, I'm going to do some editing. See ya.

_____
* I'm increasingly fed up with academics. (Extemporanea, of course, excluded.) Particularly the particular brand that I usually find myself dealing with, i.e. very clever and creative people studying something 100% up its own ass**. To be fair, a lot of what they're doing is highly innovative and has very interesting — even potentially useful — practical applications, compared with traditional arts subjects like English Lit***; but they make up for it with more rarefied, pretentious, jargon-laden and self-important "discourse" than any other field I've encountered. All of which I could forgive if they were just a bit more efficient about it... but inevitably, deadlines are not so much stretched, or missed, as warped into an entirely different dimension (years late is not uncommon), where the writer constantly lies to you about when things will happen, keeps you waiting for months (at least), then suddenly hands it over and demands that it's done right now, because you see, they have a deadline. And the work itself, dear goddess, it's so sloppily put together you'd think they have no interest in their own writing. Plus, frequently there is a remarkable absence of academic rigour or understanding — and these are PhDs; since I'm way below them in the degree stakes, I probably don't have a right to comment, but seriously.

And of course the best part is that they are all so enormously impressed with their own subject, they think it's an enormous treat for you to be working on it. Really, every time, the writer or editor tells me proudly, "You're going to enjoy this, it's really fresh, really exciting, really amazing stuff."

But of course it is, dear.

Phew, that rant came out of nowhere. Sorry.

** Try Googling "site-specific media arts".

*** Which of course I love dearly, but I've never yet managed to convince myself that it's useful. Essential, yes, but not useful. (I can just see the irate comments brewing even now...)

Twiddles and ornaments

Random plug: those of you with operatic tastes should take a peek at Vivaldi's folio, where the commenter formerly known as Anonymous is indulging in some scandalous baroque gossip. (Not enough, mind, but some encouragement from a rapt audience should help to draw him out.)

Ode to a Coat

(A Pome in the style of Ogden Nash)

Let me sing you a song of my life in unhappier times,
Freshly arrived in London from more temperate climes.
I was prepared for the ice and snow, or so I thought,
Thanks to the big grey overcoat that from home I’d brought.
But when you think about it, I really should have known better,
Because while Cape Town, compared to London, is windier, wilder and wetter,
When it comes to temperatures that invite comparison to a witch’s titty
I think you can guess which is the worser city.
Shopping at “Coats for Africa” should have tipped me off.
I wasn’t going to Africa. I was going much further norf.

Now, that was my first visit to this great metropolis, but not the last;
Five years later I returned for a longer stay, minding the lessons I’d learned in the past.
But I still only had that painfully inadequate big grey overcoat, and why?
Because I was broke and coats were expensive, and I thought I could manage if I had to try.
By Christmas time, suffice to say,
I was simply desperate to try my luck in the coat departments in the sales on Boxing Day.
The which I did, and when I found what I had come for,
At last I understood what all those joyful carols were being sung for.

I took my coat home. Ever since it has treated me well.
And every winter I am freshly reminded of why I love it more than words can tell.
It’s not just the soft black fabric, the furry trim on the cuff,
The high fluffy collar that just about reaches my ears and warms them enough
That I could, if I chose, do away with the scarf and hat.
(Which is excellent news considering I prefer my hair more bouncy, and less flat.)
Plus, in a happy accident of fashion,
This year the coat is highly en vogue, being of a style distinctly Russian.
All these attributes are wonderful, to be sure,
But the root of my love is something deeper, more pure:
This coat, you see, with its magical properties has quite simply changed my life.
It has ended the annual elemental strife.
This coat means I can now get from A to B without turning blue,
And if you think I’m exaggerating, all I can say is, be glad it has never happened to you.
What is more, it comes into its own in this silly party season,
Justifying its entire existence with this one fantastic reason:
I can, and have, venture into the deepest darkest wilds of (say) icy Essex, almost wearing something utterly scandalous and with nothing to protect me from the sub-zero breeze but this amazing coat,
Which I think you’ll agree is worth rather more than a groat.

Forget what the poet tells you, beauty isn’t truth, beauty is warmth, and warmth alone.
No one can be beautiful when they’re bundled up in six layers of clothing and despite this they’re still freezing cold and having a good moan.
If in the depths of winter, you want to get some use out of that “Ode to a Grecian Urn”,
I suggest you light a blazing logfire, take the poem and let it burn.

So now, when the days draw in and the roads are turning slippery,
My heart leaps with joy as I haul out my winter frippery.
Hat, scarf, gloves and boots all do their duty,
But nothing can match my fabulous, furry, phenomenal winter coat for sheer cosmic beauty.

PS. If, through no fault of your own, you failed to enjoy my verse,
Count your blessings. I could have done it in the epic style of Homer, which would have been infinitely worse.

Stockholm syndrome in cultural consumption

(In which the Scrivener once more lays herself bare* to charges of prudery. And possibly racism.)

Daring to question Page 3, Kira Cochrane writes:

A recent survey of 2,000 15-19-year-old girls found that 67% considered "glamour model" their ideal profession... With the proliferation of these images, is it any surprise that young women have further embraced it?

Warning: this next bit is quite upsetting.

In 2002 I read a report (in SA's Weekly Mail & Guardian) that researchers had found young girls in the townships were more likely than not to describe gang rape as "cool". Now, I've written before about the harrowing stats on rape in SA. If you're living in the township, you're pretty much going to get raped, sooner or later. And it's three times as likely to be gang rape as a solo attacker.

And, oh yes, it's pretty certain that your brother, your boyfriend, and all your male friends are out there doing the raping. Because this is what they do. The term "traumatised society" has become quite the South African cliche, but that's what it is. Things got fucked up. And this is one of the ways in which it's playing out.

So the victims themselves have come round to thinking that yes, gang rape is a cool thing for boys to do (I don't recall whether the researchers were brazen enough to ask if they thought it was cool to be raped, too), because how else can you cope with that reality?

Now, I'm not trying to compare being exposed to tacky topless photos with rape. That's one accusation I'd really rather not face. But there's a certain echo there, not so? Everybody's doing it, your dad loves the Sun, so it must be okay. Why not join in?

_____
* As it were.

The secret is out

You may remember lots of self-important hinting about my Special Secret Project. That's right, the one that was supposed to be done by the start of October.

Now, by this time half of you have already figured it out and the other half never cared anyway. But let's just pretend this is still the eagerly awaited Big Reveal, okay?

Reveal!

Edit: Credit for the awesome website goes to my Beloved, whose MA Communication Design seems to be coming in useful after all, and to Strawberryfrog, who has provided crucial technical assistance in getting the shopping cart software to work the way we want. And who is, even now, conjuring up a little extra magic.

Just do it. And do it again. And do it again. And admit that it's still crap. And do it some more.

I have, alas, absolutely no interesting comment to make on this post by a wonderful artist, but anybody with any desire to create anything worthwhile should immediately go read it.

Government as a substitute for parenting

Sometimes when I hear people banging on about rights, I'm reminded of Fay Weldon's line that "right" simply means "it would be nice". This is definitely one of those times.

Would it be nice if teenagers talked to their parents before getting an abortion? Yes, absolutely. Mrs Axon is quite right that they should do so. But if a kid isn't going to talk to her mom, she's not going to talk to her mom. In that case, she's probably terrified of what her parents will say and knowing that the doctor will have to tell her mom anyway will probably put her off going to the nice clean NHS doctor. Coathanger city. Now that's progress.

Wouldn't it be nicer if parents made their children feel comfortable talking to them first? Isn't that something that only the parents can achieve — not the law?

I smaak you china!

A South African love poem, with annotations*.

I smaak you stukkend**, please say you'll be mine,
You're my moon, my stars, my Camps Bay*** sunshine.
Better than a degree from WITS or RAU****,
Better than a proper Durban bunnychow*****.

You're my beaded love letter***** **, my breeze in the night,
You're my tea, my koeksister***** ***, my Blitz firelight***** ****
You're my Discovery, my Tracker, my ADT***** *****
My pap***** ***** *, Mrs Balls Chutney, my Nandos***** ***** ** for free,

You're my lamb chop, my chakalaka***** ***** ***, my partner in crime,
My chilli, my roti, my samoosa sublime***** ***** ****.
The list is just endless and that isn't all.
You're my Lotto jackpot, my Bioplus***** ***** *****, who needs zol***** ***** ***** *?

Biscuit, you're my 4X4 when the road is hilly,
You're the Clover pure butter on my mielie***** ***** ***** **.
One look from you and I can float to the sky
I feel like the Springboks***** ***** ***** *** have just scored a try.

At this rate Kulula's***** ***** ***** ***** popularity might die,
'Cos for me you're the only and best way to fly :)
And this, my snoekie***** ***** ***** ***** *, is only the start,
'Cos you've taken the cable car***** ***** ***** ***** ** straight to my heart!

Forget Patricia, Amor and Winnie the ex-wife***** ***** ***** ***** ***
'Cos, babe, you're the tomato sauce on the slap chips***** ***** ***** ***** **** of my life!

_____
* Not written by me. Thanks to my friend Pip for sending it on. Note: so many annotations, I'm breaking the stars up into constellations of five. Pretty, no?
** Lit. "I like you broken". But it sounds a lot less creepy in Saffer. It does not, for instance, mean "I like you in a broken format"; rather, it suggests that the poet likes his inamorata to the point of brokenness. His love for her (or hers for him, or hers for her, or his for him — in the interests of simplicity, feminism and bloodymindedness I propose to assume a female lesbian poet from now on) is so extreme, he — sorry, she — feels destroyed by the strength of her passion. But in a cute way.
*** Cape Town's most popular beach, being long, sandy and facing into the sunset, with very expensive real estate on the mountainside above. The water is notoriously icy, but the sunshine, we are to take it, is quality.
**** The University of the Witwatersrand and the Rand Afrikaans University, respectively. We are to take it that the poet is a Joburger. (There's no burger like a Joburger!)
***** Further proof that the poet is from Gauteng, since only Gautengorangs****** actually like Durban. A bunnychow, however, everybody likes. It consists of a hollowed out half-loaf of bread, filled with slap chips (see below) and, possibly, sauce. Mmmmm. Carb overload. KFC in South Africa was selling chicken bunnychows, last I saw. Bunnychows are not only sold in Durban but are perhaps associated with the Indian population there. I'm not sure.
***** * Pejorative term
***** ** Beading is a traditional Zulu craft; bracelets etc are often made with special messages encoded in the colour and placement of the beads. A bracelet might often be beaded with romantic messages as a gift and love letter in one.
***** *** A tooth-achingly sweet pastry: dough twisted into a braid and soaked in syrup. Fantastic.
***** **** Much used at that great South African tribal gathering, the braai.
***** ***** Hi-tech anti-hijacking systems. If you live in Gauteng, you will be hijacked or have your car stolen at some point. It's a given.
***** ***** * Mielie-pap: corn porridge. African staple diet.
***** ***** ** Popular chicken restaurant/takeaway. Styles itself Portuguese but is really more Mozambican. Peri-peri sauce. Great ads, chicken only okay. Has expanded to London and, I believe, Israel.
***** ***** *** Spicy sauce, usually eaten with pap.
***** ***** **** SA has a large Indian population and hence, lots of Indian food. Strangely, though, curry has not quite taken over the way it has in London.
***** ***** ***** Vitamin-rich "aid to concentration" targeted at students and other desperate sleep-deprived types. Pretty sure it's mostly caffeine.
***** ***** ***** * Marijuana.
***** ***** ***** ** Corn. See "pap".
***** ***** ***** *** The national rugby team, also known as amaBokoBoko. There are periodic mutterings about changing the name to something less strongly associated with the Bad Old Days of apartheid, but it'll never happen***** ***** ***** ****. Even if it does, they'll still be the Boks.
***** ***** ***** **** Even as I type this, I'm expecting a flood of comments telling me it already has.
***** ***** ***** ***** SA's budget airline.
***** ***** ***** ***** * Snoek is a Cape fish of remarkably strong flavour, often eaten smoked, which makes the taste and aroma even more pungent. I'm pretty sure our lesbian poetess isn't being crude, though, so put that disgusting thought right out of your head.
***** ***** ***** ***** ** That would be the cable car that takes you to the top of Table Mountain. A great ride, by the way, I recommend it.
***** ***** ***** ***** *** Ok, gonna need some help here, I've been away too long. Winnie is of course Winnie Mandela. Amor, I seem to recall, was a TV presenter — the Lotto I think? Patricia... who?
***** ***** ***** ***** **** French fries. "Slap" is an Afrikaans word, pronounced "slup", and connoting hot, greasy, salty goodness. Naturally, while good slap chips are one of the experiences that make life worthwhile, lots of thick All Gold tomato sauce is their essential, inseparable partner, so I think we can all agree that this is a truly romantic sentiment.

TWENTY-FOUR FOOTNOTES. I'll never beat that.
However, I would like to assure you all that I did not post this just for the footnoting opportunities. Really. I didn't. I swear.

The Scroobious Chef: How to make butternut soup

1. Plan to make pumpkin soup. Send out an invitation that prominently features the words "pumpkin soup". Borrow an enormous pot for the express purpose of boiling pumpkins in. Scour the interweb for pumpkin soup recipes. Decide the recipes all suck*, I'll just make it up. Plan recipe in head.

2. Discover that no one actually eats pumpkins, they just cut them up to stick candles in, and Halloween was last week, so requests for pumpkins at Tesco are met with impolite laughter.

3. Decide to make butternut soup instead. Look for bags of diced butternut, because I'm not crazy. Find two pathetically tiny packets of diced butternut and sweet potato. Resign myself to doing it the oldfashioned way. Grab four butternuts. Ponder what else needs to go in this soup. Buy sour cream and cashews. Go home.

4. Realise forgot to buy onions. Panic. Discover onions in fridge. Stop panicking.

5. Check clock. Realise I'm going to still be cooking when guests arrive, so I'd better change into party clothes first. Don cute suede miniskirt. Look for apron. Beloved has hidden apron**. Resign myself to being very, very careful not to mess up suede skirt. Get cooking.

6. Chuck some butter in enormous pot. Whizz some onions in wonderful magic food chopping device. Chuck onions in butter over low, low heat. Instruct onions to look after themselves while I deal with the butternut. Boil some water.

7. Check instructions on butternut label for helpful tips on chopping. Find that cooking instructions, for either oven or microwave cooking, start with "butternut must be chopped into 2cm cubes".

8. Spend half an hour fighting with one damn butternut. Realise this is not a workable method. Chuck that first butternut in the pot, add hot water and stock, turn on oven, chop remaining three butternuts in half. Chuck five butternut halves in oven, stick one in microwave (that being all that will fit in small microwave). Proceed as follows: nuke butternut for 5 minutes, remove, take next butternut half from oven and nuke, skin first butternut while burning fingers and swearing, dice and chuck in pot, remove, etc. Repeat until last two butternut halves are removed from oven and by this stage don't need any nuking. Congratulate self on cunning plan which has only taken, ooh, another half an hour?

9. While 8 is still in progress, greet guests who are arriving on time, the bastards***, and are looking quizzically at state of kitchen. Apologise for glaring absence of promised gluhwein or prepared snacks. Gratefully accept offers of help and ply them with alcohol, or rather, get them to ply each other with alcohol because I'm still busy with damn butternut.

10. Soup is looking disgusting. Worry that this might be a repeat of the Surprising Purple Cabbage Soup**** experience.

11. Whizz coriander seeds and cloves in magic device. Chuck into pot.

12. Chuck cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and black pepper into pot. Colour worse and worse.

13. Whizz cashews in magic device. Chuck into pot. Colour improves! Turn down heat.

14. Chuck two tubs of sour cream and a bunch of milk***** into pot. Colour now quite lovely.

15. Realise I forgot the damn bay leaves. Send horticulturally challenged guest out to get bay leaves, with strictly non-botanical instructions ("In the pot, one of three pots, on concrete strip, it doesn't have flowers in, it only has bay treelets****** and thyme"). Success! He brings bay leaves, saying proudly "this isn't thyme". Correct. Well done.

16. Run out of stuff to chuck in pot. Stir.

17. Soup starts to get into the Guy Fawkes spirit and explodes. It starts with friendly little "plops" but soon is attacking me with great viciousness. Seriously. I have big red spots on my hands today. Also, there is butternut soup on the ceiling. And — inevitably — on my cute suede miniskirt.

18. Try to remove soup from heat, but that requires getting close to it, and it's still attacking me. Finally activate brain, quell the Butternut Beast with lid on pot. Aha! Safety.

19. Make gluhwein. Drink gluhwein. Wait for soup's savage breast to be soothed.

20. Fearfully check soup. Looks soupy. Chuck in some parmesan. Serve.

21. Best soup EVER.

22. Try to persuade Beloved to pay for drycleaning my miniskirt. Fail dismally.


Feel free to adapt this recipe as you see fit. Using diced butternut, for instance, is highly to be recommended. But don't leave out the cashews. They're the special secret ingredient that makes all the difference.

_____
* For one thing, they were all weird "Thai curry pumpkin" or "pumpkin and mussel" type recipes, not basic pumpkin; for another, none of them specified how many servings they made, when what I most wanted to know was how much pumpkin I needed to feed a party; and finally, none of them had any useful information on how to actually prepare the pumpkin. They all started with "500g of diced pumpkin" or — my personal favourite — "15oz can of pumpkin". A can of pumpkin? While I appreciate that this is a fabulous idea, I've never in my life seen such a thing. Not the most useful, then.
** Beloved of course denies doing any such thing, but I present to you two pieces of incontrovertible evidence. One: apron used to live on back of kitchen door. It's not there now. Two: Beloved has habit of finding new homes for things that he does not, himself, use very often, on grounds that they'd be more out of the way somewhere else. He then forgets where he put them or, indeed, that such a thing ever existed. "What apron?" indeed.
*** This is the problem with inviting South Africans and Germans. English guests are always properly late (at least two hours). But the forruners, we're a punctual lot. (That whole "Africa time" thing? Is a total lie.)
**** Tasted great, looked bizarre. Everyone refused to eat it. It turned navy blue when kept in the fridge, then reverted to purple on reheating. Fascinating stuff.
***** Technical term.
****** Another technical term.

Inevitable, really

We're throwing a small bonfire party tonight. The weather forecast? 13 degrees, but clear skies. The sky up until five minutes ago? Blue as the blessed virgin's mantle. The sky now? DOOM.

I do hope it gets over itself quickly. And preferably a mile or so south of here. (Or anywhere, really, but the wind seems to be northerly.) I was really looking forward to those toasted marshmallows.

Update: It did get over itself. We had a wonderful clear, cold night. Good party. I like parties. Lots of lovely people and lovely food and drink and fire. Okay, there isn't always fire, but there was this time. Good party. (According to the only criterion that counts: did I have a good time? Yes. Ergo, good party.)

Just for Hen

In the interests of restoring gender equality, a totally gratuitous shot of barechested firemen. No big hoses, alas.

Stop hating me and start giggling

Since I managed to offend just about everyone with that last post (I should know better than to try and put on a serious debating hat, I'm so crap at it), why don't you just listen to this great voicemail message and pretend the other never happened.

Undercover journalism

As ever, I'm a bit late in picking this up, but here's a great piece on those horrid lad's mags.

Now, of the many, many interesting points that I could discuss, there's just one that I can't resist.

"When you become a celebrity," explains FHM editor Ross Brown, "you automatically tick the box saying 'Are you prepared to be photographed in your knickers and pants?' "

Which begs these three questions:
1. When, exactly, was this rule created?
2. Has anyone told the men? The male stars, I mean. Not the readers. We all know what they think.
3. Most intriguingly: knickers and pants*? What an odd idea. Are two pairs of lacy drawers sexier than one? I must try to keep up with these boudoir trends.

[...twitches, presses lips together, jiggles knee...]

Okay no, I'm sorry, there is just one other thing. At the risk of being a humourless feminist, I have to take issue with this:

"My readers are ordinary blokes - squaddies, students, bricklayers, lawyers - and to them Loaded is pure escapism," says Daubney. "They have girlfriends and wives. They know real women aren't like that."

Bollocks.

Or, if you prefer, non-gender-specific gonads. Whatever you call it, it's still a lie wrapped in a confusion.

The confusion is that while the readers - being adults of presumably at least moderate intelligence - may know women aren't really like that, they are encouraged to believe women should be. And sigh, and cast resigned glances at the flawed, inadequate specimens they are forced to settle for.

The lie is that many of the readers are not, in fact, adults, and are easily misled as to what "real" women are like. True story: I once had a heated argument with a chap of university age and intelligence**, who insisted that there really were women who derived complete sexual satisfaction from fellatio. Now, giving pleasure may indeed deliver pleasure in itself, but I think we can all agree life is not Deep Throat. Right? ...Right? Suffering Sappho, am I revealing my freakish sexual inadequacy here?

I've also had plenty of conversations with men of an age and experience that should have led them to know better, who whined plaintively that surely those were real breasts? Surely? Or who said, at least half-seriously, that they knew women liked [insert sexual practice here] because they'd seen it in the movies.

Or as Gendergeek so neatly puts it:

"...the lads' mag promulgates a male fantasy of adult sexuality that falls hopelessly short of reality. This is acknowledged even within their own pages, where instruction is provided on how to attain the dizzying heights of sexual pleasure that the magazines appear to be offering.

A typical sex Q&A feature in Zoo had four questions about how to persuade a reluctant woman to have anal sex, three on how to get her to watch hard-core porn and "How can I get my girlfriend to give me deep throat?""

So, I'm not going to argue about these bloody magazines' right to print whatever they want. There wouldn't be much point. But they shouldn't imagine they don't have an impact on how real women are perceived and treated, and what is expected of them.

That is all.

_____
* Note for Americans and Saffers: pants=underpants, not trousers. Yes, always.
** Edit: there was a nasty and unfair jibe here. There isn't any more. Apologies to those who read it.

Meme of the month

Not technically a meme, more a stolen idea: things to do in November.

1. Get a cold (check).
2. Get over cold.
3. Finish my Special Secret Project, which is only a month overdue, already. Gah. (Nearly there, though. Nearly…)
4. Knit like a demon, because I owe FOUR PEOPLE knitwear of various description (not including someone who doesn’t know I’ve promised her a shawl, and not including me, who’s just dying for a little bit of woolly self-love. And one of these knit projects has a deadline of 2 December, when I get on a plane and go to visit the giftee.
5. Prepare myself psychologically to see my mother when I get off that plane. (No. She’s not on the knitting list.)
6. Wire jaw shut in desperate effort to attain beach-friendly body before I reach the beach.
7. Enjoy having only five working weeks left in the year (since I’ll be on holiday for all of December).
8. Try to contain my excitement at all the good things awaiting me next month.

Apparently, November’s all about the anticipation. Ah well. Probably there will be some fun along the way. As soon as I get over this damn cold.

At-CHOO.

Edit:
I just remembered two other things happening this November. On the 4th, my nephew Spot turns two. And on the 27th, the Scrivenings turn one. We'll have to celebrate with a little something-something. Be sure to tune in for the party.

I'll make you laugh. I'll make you cry.

Actually, I won't make you do either of those things, but today's Guardian just might.

First, the funny (shamelessly cribbed off the internet, but never mind): the ballad of the wrong trousers. Makes you want to immediately hunt down all other items on offer from this seller, doesn't it? If only we knew who he was...*

Right, now that I've softened you up and you're feeling all warm and giggly, go look at what that horrible Tony's saying these days about climate change policy.

Apparently, it's terribly important to meet "the clear desire of our people - which is to find a way of combining rising living standards with the responsibility to protect our environment". Well, yes. Having cake, eating it. Natural human desire. But since it's quite obviously not possible to do both, shouldn't someone take responsibility for keeping the planet - that means us - alive a bit longer? Shouldn't that someone be the socalled leaders of the free world?

This is particularly agonising when you recall that, as pointed out by George Monbiot not long ago, big corporations actually need government to lead the way. (Curse that economic imperative.) Companies don't want to lose out to their eco-unfriendly (but cheaper) competitors; governments don't want to distress voters by, say, making the price of air travel actually approach the cost to the planet; so nobody does anything and we all hope that wind farms will save us. As if.
_____
* Thanks to Omar, who tracked down the post, now we do know. And he has a blog. Now the only question is, what was going on with the Guardian; probably they ran a whole meta-media-type article on the pants, and the coverage they got, in the actual paper, but something happened in the digital translation. At least, that's what I hope happened.

Trivial pursuits

Pub quiz tonight.

[flexes brain]

May I have telepathic access to all your brains tonight? Thank you. We have a trophy to defend, you know.

Update: well, you lot just suck at this, don't you? Try harder, guys. When I ask for Lenin's real name, "John" is not what I'm after. (Vladimir Getyatopoff also won't cut it, as it turns out.) Okay? I guess I didn't make clear just how important this was. We were defending a trophy, and our reputation. And we failed. Even Norfolk & Chance* beat us - by just one point. One. Come on, if one of you had been able to recognise the intro to Alice Cooper's Poison, the humiliation would have been less complete. As it is... well, thank godlings I don't have to show my face in the office today. Is all I can say.

I appreciate the Aldous Huxley tip, though. Don't know which one of you knew he died on the same day as JFK, but that was prime trivia. Well done.

_____
* Say it quickly, with a Northern accent. Hur hur.

My new favourite site

PainInTheEnglish.com.

For Lynne Truss fans and others.

Wanted: new psyche

Can I trade in my mind for one that doesn't respond to "I feel fat" with "I need chocolate"? Or to "I have so much to do" with "ooh, cube bugs!"?

How is it that a perfectly acceptable brain, no scratches or dents, logic circuits all functioning (on a rational level), can make this kind of error?

Blah. Blahblahblah. Also, blah.

To bed at 11. Up at 1.30 to let the cat in*. Up at 3.30 to let the cat out**. Beloved up at 5.30 to let the cat in.

Between 1.30 and 5.30 I dozed a little. After that, not at all. You know what time I had to get up today? 9.45. That's how long I could have slept in. In theory.

I got up and tried to surf myself to sleep, but the internet was broken. (Seriously. Everyone and their aunt - not you, extemp - must have had the same idea.) Only thing that wasn't broken was Cube Bugs. Which was actually not a bad idea, since by the time I had done level 16, my eyes were going squiffy and I thought I could sleep some more. I almost could.

I think I have to quit drinking coffee.

Also, the thyme on my kitchen windowsill is all mouldy, the mint is all brown, and the basil is all anaemic. What's up with that?

But on the plus side, today I'm going to have an enormous mocha milkshake*** at Ed's Easy Diner, and then I'm going to the legendary Ronnie Scott's to be a member of a Live studio audience! for something or other. I have no idea, really, a friend had tickets. Then back to the office, where I'll doodle over some freelance work, and then to a birthday dinner at Ciao Bella.

There are worse ways to spend a Friday.

Edit: By the time I'd taken a bus from Vauxhall to Trafalgar Square - i.e., right through the thick of Westminster, also known as Tourist Central - the sun was shining in that particularly delicious way it has after heavy rain, and I was filled with a remarkable sense of wellbeing. I smiled indulgently at the ridiculous tourists taking pictures of each other in red telephone booths****, and the even more ridiculous Queen's Guards on their beautiful black horses who have to stand still all day. (Poor horses. They never signed up for this.) I beamed at Alison Lapper on her plinth*****. And when I actually sat down at Ed's, I positively chortled at the lovely lady handing me an Oreo cookie shake.

And then the taping was enormous fun. It was for a radio show called It's Been a Bad Week, which pokes fun at current affairs - a bit like Have I Got News For You! but with sound effects. Lots of unfortunate bird flu jokes and other bad taste. Loved it. Especially the retakes - so much fun watching actors pissing about, making off-colour jokes, trying to throw each other off balance... Altogether though, it was a wonderfully oldfashioned experience, sitting in a smoky jazz club watching a radio show being performed. Or perhaps "timeless" is the word. Anyway.

I'm in a really fabulous mood now. Unreasonably fabulous. Must be the lack of sleep.

Oddly enough, the poll on the company intranet today is "How are you?". Yes, they're scraping the bottom of the barrel, and yes, that's funny in itself. I found it peculiar, though, that the three possible responses were: "Fine thanks", "Could be better" or "Not good. Not good at all." Clearly it's inconceivable that anybody at work on a Friday afternoon could be feeling any better than just, oh, fine...

_____
* For those who question why I let the cat in on demand: she keeps scratching at the door till I do, so I can't sleep anyway. Also, I'm not completely heartless, it could be raining.
** For those who question why I let the cat out on demand: she turns into a monster freak who wanders around yowling, scratching the bed and/or knocking things over until I do. Sometimes she's perfectly happy to be scooped up, dumped on the bed and drowsily scratched into restfulness (takes about 1 second). Sometimes she's still perfectly happy for this to occur, but instead of falling asleep, after 10 minutes she'll bounce up and resume the crazy.
*** Or maybe a mocha and brandy. Heh. That'll cheer me up.
**** Something Beloved definitely, absolutely, never even considered doing. Nope.
***** "But is it art?" Hell, yes.

Get your feminist freak on*

I once read a wonderful, wonderful quote that sadly, I can't exactly remember. The gist of it was this.

A suffragette (nobody famous) was asked to explain what feminism was. She said feminists wanted everybody to be allowed to be themselves, to be independent and empowered. Her interlocutor pointed out that many men were not so lucky. "Then they should become feminists," she answered.

May I direct you to: the Carnival of Feminists. Should be about a week's worth of brilliant reading in there. Have a ball**!
_____
* No, that doesn't mean we have some man-hating content here, and if you say that again I'll bitchslap you. I pack a mean slap. Be warned.
** Nope, still not with the man-hating. Stop that, now.

What is it about the number 7?

7 THINGS I CAN DO
Knit like the fabulous fibre fiend I am.
Make legendary lasagne, pecan pie and seafood risotto. But not all at the same time. Not enough dishes.
Multitask like a mofo.
Meet any deadline, no matter how ridiculous. I have my own personal time thingy. (You know, like those cylinder things the time monks have. YOU know.) Sadly, it’s deadline specific, I can’t use it to rewind time to prevent my foot entering my mouth, which it does with distressing regularity.
Spell.
Pay a compliment. I’m always amazed at how much it means to people. There is a serious lack of complimenting in our lives. Reader! Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to go make someone happy: tell them they did something well. Obviously, only if they actually did.
The bendy bits of yoga.

7 THINGS I CAN’T DO
Sew. Sewing machines, they hate me. It’s just that simple.
Cook or bake anything that requires me to measure things. Or pay much attention.
Keep foot out of mouth.
Sing.
Stick to a budget, or a diet.
The balancing bits of yoga.
Pay attention.

7 THINGS THAT ATTRACT ME SEXUALLY*
Physical details, impossible to describe, that have to do with hands, shoulders (in men) or hips (in women), lips and eyes.
Leather.
Lightly tanned skin.
Lack of self-consciousness.
A soft, low speaking voice.
Buying me presents.
Being my Beloved.

7 THINGS THAT I SAY MOST OFTEN
SO no.
It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it!
I love you gorgeous!
Seriously, are they not the cutest cats in the whole world ever?
Seriously, I have to do something about the size of me.
What do you mean I can’t have more dessert?!
Just two more minutes… (after my morning alarm goes off)

7 (er, 3, but one of them's a biggy) THINGS THAT SCARE ME**
Spiders. Not as much as they used to, though.
Steep slopes. Heights, not at all, but high gradient really freaks me out. I hate, hate, hate driving up that street in Oranjezicht – you know, the one that goes practically straight up Table Mountain – which is a bit of a problem since my very nice mother-in-law lives there.
Failing at anything.
Other than that, not much.

7 THINGS I PLAN TO DO BEFORE I DIE
Win the Booker Prize three times, because anything that twunt JM Coetzee can do, I can do better.
Travel across every continent, and every country in Europe (well, all the real ones).
Sail around the world – by which I mean, mix cocktails while the crew does the actual sailing. Note to self: buy really good sunscreen.
Jump out of a plane. With a parachute. I'm not suicidal.
Win a tango competition. Which will be tricky, since I'm a complete klutz, but nothing like a challenge.
Own pieds-a-terre in Cape Town, Paris, Zurich, London and New York – as well as my real home, a villa somewhere in the south of France.

7 PEOPLE I WANT TO DO THIS
Guyana-Gyal
Um…
The two people I’d most want to tag don’t have blogs, and I think the rest have already done it or been tagged. So hey. Take the baton if you want to, and leave a link in the comments.

Edit: Anon is now blogging, and has clearly left himself wide open for this one. Tag! You're it!

_____
* I'm not going to restrict myself to just one sex. Being boringly monogamous, and the topic not being "reasons I love my husband", it's all hypothetical anyway.
** I pinched this one from Anne Arkham, because after Johnny Depp and Cate Blanchett, I ran out of celebrity crushes.

I want to be a biologist!

Well, no, not really. But I do want to be able to introduce names like bone-eating snot flowers to the lexicon. Don't you?

(Thanks, bumpycat!)

I may just have to break the habit of a lifetime

I have never actually followed a knitting pattern in my life. Well, I came close once, but ended up tweaking it significantly to please my whim. (My whim's remarkably fussy.)

But the Victorian section in the latest Vogue Knitting could have been designed just for me. I'd happily make and wear pretty much every one of those little beauties. In fact, that red coat looks remarkably like something that actually has been germinating in my brain for a while.

So maybe I'll see how I do at following patterns, rather than inventing my own. (Tweaking allowed.) I'm sure I could learn something in the process.

Ah, who'm I kidding? I may never get around to these. Oh, but I'd so like to...

Hours in the day, more of, must acquire.

Purple prose

Today I am clad head to toe in berry and plum shades. This being one of my two favourite colour families (the other is teal), I'm quite enjoying it. (Also, my aubergine lace tights are just lovely.) But! Quelle horreur!

Today's Daily Mail has a bit of puffery - it's so far from having any real content, I'm amazed they even printed it - on Madonna showing up at something or other clad head to toe in purple. Apparently this is the colour of the season (well, duh) and "she looks just fantastic".

I'm in anguish. I'm dressed like MADONNA! And my fashion choice has been approved by the DAILY MAIL!

Oh, the shame, the shame...

Mary was touched by his noodly appendage

We all know, of course, that the Flying Spaghetti Monster created this beautiful world. But apparently some people are still denying this knowledge. They are even offering money for proof of evolution. Talk about desperate.

So I'm delighted to see that some of the faithful are posing their own challenge: $1 million dollars to prove that Jesus is not the son of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

That should clear this right up.

And if that doesn't do the job, maybe we'll learn the truth when we learn to read God's graffiti.

Fiction in real life

I was only a little startled to see the following sign when travelling through King's Cross* yesterday.



But when I met this political campaigner, I realised the barrier between fiction and reality was getting dangerously blurry.



So I've called in an expert. Anyone with evidence of similar incidents, please report them to the authorities. Where will it end? Vetinari in Number 10?

_____
* Poor JK Rowling. Let down by research, lack of. As London-living Potter fans would know, the supposed barrier between platforms 9 and 10 that you have to run at to catch the Hogwarts Express does not, in fact, exist. At least, not at King's Cross. She was actually thinking of Euston. True story. So this sign is somewhat randomly placed, in the general vicinity of platform 10.

To everything (turn, turn, turn...)

Every city, I believe, has its season. Just think of the cliches: “Paris in the spring.” “Autumn in New York.”* I always thought my favourite season was spring, but I’m starting to realise it depends entirely on where I am.

In Cape Town, it has to be spring. There’s a special, indescribable smell in the air about two days before all the oak trees pop their new leaves; a fresh, green smell full of energy and excitement. I have a lousy sense of smell, but somehow I’m attuned to this one; most of my friends say they don’t know what I’m talking about, and I have never detected it in any other place. But Cape Town in the spring. It’s beautiful. It’s that smell. (Well, it might also be those budding oak trees, and the flowers, and the clear blue skies, before everything gets sweaty and infested with tourists… but for me, it’s the smell that defines it.)

Johannesburg is incredible in summer. Hot, dry air, but lush gardens and green treelined streets**. (Or purple treelined streets, as the case may be. All those jacarandas.) And best of all – the afternoon thunderstorms! Glittery blue skies cloud over, the light turns ominously purple, then bang! crash! bazoom! Buckets of rain coming down in huge, warm drops. Mad lightning temper tantrums. Then it’s over, everything’s calm and fresh, and the air is electric-smelling and rosy as the sun goes down.

Zurich comes into its own in winter. It’s remarkably lovely all year round, of course – old world romance on a lake? Hard to go wrong – but Switzerland means snow, let’s face it, and when everything’s sparkling like a great big wedding cake, well, that’s just right. Isn’t it?

But much to my surprise, I’ve concluded that London is an autumn city. Since I bitch so much about winter here - the darkness of the days, the interminable greyness, the relentless bloody length of the miserable season*** - you’d think I’d be sold on spring. And spring is good. Daffodils cheer a person up quite wonderfully after all that winter.

But autumn! Autumn seems to come more naturally. After the muggy confusion of the London summer**** – public transport is a horror, it’s so humid you can’t breathe and the sunshine is liable to give way to rain at the drop of a sandal - autumn makes sense in the same way that winter does in Zurich. When the streets are misty, they take on a properly Victorian mien, like the London you imagine from books. My jogging route through Osterley Park is suddenly quieter, more romantic, richer in colour and texture. Flocks of birds swoop over the lake; in fog, the park seems that much more like a working farm (which it is) and less like a suburban oasis (which it also is). The train to town takes me past astonishing bursts of red and orange among the hedges. The evening light over the river is purple, but rather than being brooding – like the purple storm skies of Joburg – it’s velvety and comforting. In autumn, London is mysterious, and grand, and cosy, all at once.

The only problem is that winter is coming.
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* Not that I would know. Never crossed the Atlantic, and my only visit to Paris (so far) was in summer. Not just any summer, either. That summer.
** Joburg has been described, perhaps hyperbolically, as the world’s largest man-made forest. There’s not much natural beauty there – let’s be frank: it’s a giant minedump – so they had to invent some. There are a lot of trees. Autumn is spectacular, but over in the blink of an eye. In summer, though, the avenues are beautiful.
*** Three good months in a year is not the way it’s supposed to be. Three months bad weather is about all we need, thanks. I’m from down south. I know what a real climate is.
**** Which is rather wonderful in its own way, of course. Long warm evenings and masses of free events – outdoor movie screenings, concerts, festivals – but also an unfortunate rash of pasty, podgy poms taking their shirts off. [shudder]

Perhaps that explains it

Beloved is upset with me. He claims I've been slandering the Swiss. I don't see it at all. Apart from pointing out - quite truthfully - that they're all bonkers, I haven't said anything objectionable. Have I?

However, I'm just about to.

Today's Worthless Word is ultramontane. Two of its three definitions* follow.

1) situated beyond the (Alps) mountains;
3) claiming an absolute supremacy or a privileged
superiority.

I think I now understand the Swiss a little bit better. Their sense of superiority is lexicographically induced.

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* The other is to do with the Pope and not relevant to present discussion.

Blogs as good as newspapers: Discuss

So "media critic" Jeff Jarvis maintains there is no clear distinction - nor should there be - between professional news sources and bloggers.

Well, if Yahoo! were indeed not distinguishing between the two, then my rant below could conceivably end up in search results right alongside the venerable Times and its ilk. Not convinced that's a good idea, myself. Although admittedly, it would be hard to mistake my spewing for Proper Journalism.

Thing is this. There are tabloid rags that sully the name of reporting, and there are informed, articulate blogs that raise this medium to a far more rarefied level. But there is still a distinction. Primarily this: that newspapers have to check their sources. Even on the shoddiest of student papers, contributions do at least get edited by another pair of eyes. Bloggers have no such constraints. Yes, I believe that is an important distinction.

I don't wish to sound patronising, but from the guff that lands in my inbox from perfectly smart, well-educated friends, I think it's clear that even smart and educated people are not always adept at recognising total tosh. Let's not confuse them. Or me. When I'm looking up a news story, I find it hard enough sifting through recognised news sources to find the most relevant and reliable information; I don't wish to have those search results clogged up with blogs that could be written by very articulate and convincing nuts. I can find those on Technorati, thank you very much.

Note: I'm not objecting to Yahoo!'s move to bring up blogs in a clearly defined separate section to the news - that's great. If I want comment, I can find both professional and independent comment in a single search. Lovely. But please, flag up what it is.

There's a side issue to this that intrigues me. If you decide the distinction between edited and non-edited writing is less important than, say, questions of tone and quality, then how to distinguish between the different types of blog? There are trade blogs, non-specific blogs by serious and well informed commentators, blogs with humorous intent, blogs with social intent, and blogs impossible to define. Blogs that succeed in these aims and those that, well, don't. There are blogs read by squillions across the globe, and blogs read by only the cockroaches crawling across their writers' desks. By and large, blog surfers of the world seem to do a fine job of filtering these for themselves; it doesn't take long to find the A list in any sector, or those that appeal to you particularly, and it's easy to tell those written for friends and family from those written in a bid for world media domination. All these have their merit. (Except maybe the cockroach ones.) I'd really rather not worry about where my own site fits into all that.

Please. Let's not get antsy about fitting into the formal news regime. We're not formal news. That's sort of the point. Isn't it?

Ooh!

One for the blogroll:

Sunshine.

Cos why? Cos it's a movie blog. Blogging the production of a big ol' Hollywood SF flick. Spaceships. And Chris Evans. And Michelle Yeoh. And Cillian Murphy. And it's by Danny Boyle. (Those two seem to like each other, eh?) And, oh yes, Jane Fonda's son* is in it too.

Now, I admit the chances of us getting gratuitous topless shots of Chris are slender. But this could be fun, no?

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* Shame. Troy Garity goes to all that effort to not use her name, and there I go and be mean.

My oh my

From Gendergeek, a worrying look at how pseudo-religion (Scientology) can make an already terrifying experience (childbirth) even more traumatic, as well as highly repressive (for the mother) and life-threatening (for the baby).

Save Katie now!

Pee Ess

You see that word verification thing? Yeah. I know. But pretend it's a game, and give me definitions for the words you get, okay? Then maybe it'll be less annoying.

Leadership battles, SA style

The good news: people are mad at Mbeki*. The bad news: they'd rather have someone neck-deep in scandal.

Choice quote: “I don’t care whether he is innocent or not. What matters is that he is being attacked because he is not a yes-man.”

Really? It doesn't matter that he's probably guilty of massive corruption? The idea that government leaders (let's not kid ourselves, Zuma's hardly the only one) are habitually using their positions to scrape every juicy scrap from government coffers, for themselves and their extended families, at enormous cost to the taxpayer and to the detriment of public services - that doesn't bother you? You feel South Africans have enough cash that we can afford to be stolen from?

Well. That's certainly a fresh perspective.

And as for this: “This reminds me of the time when I was charged in the High Court in Pretoria. Everything inside the court was against me — from the police to the top" - you can NOT be serious. Trial one: for crimes against apartheid, perpetrated in the name of the oppressed masses. Trial two: for sordid theft, to put it simply, from those oppressed masses. (They will cease to be oppressed only when they escape their unimaginable poverty, and Aids, and constant deception by their greedy, morally bankrupt socalled leaders.)

Using your struggle credentials to fog up the worrying signs that you yourself are now the oppressor - how dignified.

Grumble grumble grumble. Sometimes I hate reading news from home.
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* Not that having an unpopular president is a good thing. But they should be mad. Just maybe not for this particular reason.

Does it got any sports in it?

Okay, so stealing is bad, but I know there are more of you out there who really need to read Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, via The Princess Bride.

(Thanks, Cate!)

George Bush is een lekker wijf

If Scroobious's needs aren't entertaining enough, try the next step: who IS Scroobious?

And far funnier: Who is George Bush?

I'm a woman. I have needs.

And according to Google, Fount of all Wisdom, this is what Scroobious needs*:

Scroobious needs to create systems for dealing with clutter.
VERDICT: True. Small flat. Too much stuff. Too much mess. Horrid. However, while I keep inventing clutter-management systems, none of them have yet worked.

Scroobious needs her fans' support!
VERDICT: But of course. Why else would I be blogging? Ego satisfaction. Obviously.

Scroobious needs to be taught a lesson - luckily for her it's the kind of dirty tutorial that she enjoys.
VERDICT: Wha? Who's writing this stuff? The cheeky...

Scroobious needs advice on covering her boiler.
VERDICT: False. Boiler was never that great in the original, I think a remake would be ridiculous.

Scroobious needs this treatment to stay alive.
VERDICT: True. If by "treatment" you mean "good Swiss chocolate, regular massage and her fans' support".

Scroobious needs to feel What is Above.
VERDICT: Hang on, does this have anything to do with that "dirty tutorial"...?

Scroobious needs all the help she can get.
VERDICT: True, alas. But good help is just so hard to find these days.

Scroobious needs it spelled out that she's dumped.
VERDICT: It's not true! I haven't been dumped! No! No! No!

Scroobious needs to make an album that rocks.
VERDICT: True. That boiler song was really scraping the barrel.

Scroobious needs to work on tolerance and understanding.
VERDICT: False. I am very tolerant and understanding, unless you're just plain wrong.

And finally, to sum up:

Scroobious needs more by way of a biography than these brief words.
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* Obviously, I used my real life name. Not a lot of Scroobii out there.

SGS: Postscript

The Guide really is done now, but I couldn't resist adding this joke I just got from a friend (and reader).

A Swiss man, looking for directions, pulls up at a bus stop where two Americans are waiting.

"Entschuldigung, koennen Sie Deutsch sprechen?" he asks. The two Americans just stare at him.

"Excusez-moi, parlez vous Francais?" he tries. The two continue to stare.

"Parlare Italiano?" No response.

"Hablan ustedes Espanol?" Still nothing.

The Swiss guy drives off, extremely disgusted. The first American turns to the second and says, "Y'know, maybe we should learn a foreign language."

"Why?" says the other. "That guy knew four languages, and it didn't do him any good."

SGS: Appendix

To understand a country, one should understand its products. So, now that you have some insights into Swiss culture, let us consider some of the best-known Swiss cultural artefacts.

The Swiss army knife. While the actual Swiss army uses a knife with rather fewer appendages than the ludicrously overcapable devices we know and love, nonetheless, this item combines neatness with protection - key concepts in analysing the Swiss psyche. As a small and landlocked country with a lot of wealth, Switzerland is naturally concerned with self-defence. The guiding principle is: one can only remain neutral as long as one is in a position to kick some butt, should the need arise. Hence, the powerful Swiss army - the nuttiness of which has already been discussed - and the Swiss army knife*.

Swiss bank accounts. I really don't know how this one started, but there it is: banking and insurance are the linchpins of the Swiss economy. Meaning, it has some serious wealth. And is concerned, once again, with protecting it. I seem to notice a ridiculous number of ads for insurance products when I visit.

Swiss watches. Obvious, really. Obsessed with punctuality, and enjoying much wealth? Make a luxury watch!

Cows. Driving through Switzerland - or indeed, taking a reliable, comfortable and scenic train ride - one notices an extraordinary number of cows on the mountainside. Visiting a tourist shop, one notices a great number of wooden cows and/or brass cowbells for sale. Well, cows are, after all, key to the Swiss diet** - all that cheese***! Interesting to note: "I dream of cows" is, according to Gore Vidal's Creation, an ancient Aryan idiom meaning "I lust for wealth"****.

Chocolate. Actually, I don't know if this says anything about Switzerland. I just couldn't leave it out. Good, good stuff. Um... it's also rich****.

And finally: the ultimate Swiss artefact. The encapsulation of all that is Swiss. The souvenir so perfect that if it didn't exist, you'd have to invent it:



The cuckoo clock. Punctuality. Kitsch wooden chalets. Wealth - they don't come cheap. Very often, cows. (You'd be amazed at how many moving parts they can get in those things.) And - obviously - complete insanity.

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* I was most disappointed, early in my relationship, to discover that Beloved's Swiss army knife was not actually from the Swiss army. His boots, however, were. Another perk of service: not only do they give you guns, they give you boots, and replace them when they wear out. Unfortunately, since he has been living abroad and hence escaping the annual refresher, he missed out on the replacements, and is now bootless. Sad, really.
** Something I inexplicably forgot to mention in the chapter on cuisine: even a cold drink is based on dairy. In a sneaky trap for the unwary lactose intolerant among us, Rivella - a very popular and delicious drink - looks and tastes like sparkling apple juice, but it's 35% milk serum.
*** Please note, Swiss cheese is not all full of holes. Only Emmenthaler. There are other kinds of Swiss cheese. I like Gruyere, myself.
**** Yes. I might be pushing the tags a bit here.

SGS: Travel tips

In the last chapter of the Scroobious Guide to Switzerland, we take a brief look at three important, yet often neglected subjects.

First, what to pack? Swiss style is classically elegant - not that that matters, when you're dragging your tired ass up a mountain. So you'll pack what you need to go climbing, or skiing, and that's fairly straightforward: warm, rugged, etc. Gentlemen do not tend to fret over such questions, but for the ladies, a little advice.

Do not - repeat, do NOT - be tempted to pack high heels (even sensible high-heeled boots) for a mountain holiday. Yes, there is your evening's entertainment to be considered; yes, you may want to put on a little bit of ritz to go out in. But unless you are staying in a smart hotel and don't plan on venturing further than the hotel bar, you will very soon be confronted with that unfortunate fact of a mountain holiday: you're on a mountain. You can't go anywhere without walking up or down a hill. A very steep hill. You'll just have to settle for sportif chic, my dear.

This next tip you won't find anywhere else, but believe me, it's a gem: for hiking in any season but winter, bring a pashmina. No, not a real pashmina, that would be ridiculous. But something pashmina-shaped, in light cotton or similar. Here's what happens: you venture outdoors; it is cold. (Maybe not in high summer, but maybe. You're pretty high up, after all.) You bundle up in a t-shirt or vest and warm jacket, and wrap the pashmina round your neck. Cosy! You start climbing. You generate body heat. (Very quickly. Not a lot of oxygen up there, so you're working extra hard.) You unzip the jacket. Sooner or later you take off the jacket. The sun is shining. You are sweating. But: while the sun is warm, the air is cool. Your sweat chills your skin, especially when the sun disappears, or you walk under trees. Pashmina to the rescue! Drape it over your shoulders and you will be not too hot, not too cold, and as a bonus, protected from sunburn.

I think I might have to patent this special Hiker's Friend. Chaps, until David Beckham makes pashminas de rigueur for blokes, you'll just have to tough it out like you always do. While your girlfriend brags about how comfortable she is. Ah ha ha.

Two, the what-to-tip tip. Tipping is apparently not big in Switzerland. If the service is good, leave something, but don't overdo it.

And finally, a word on how not to offend your hosts. Actually, make that two words. Two words to be avoided at all costs:

Nazi gold.

SGS: Activities

What you do in Switzerland will, of course, depend on where you go. In the cities, go shop, and take lots of pictures of the pretty olde worlde ambience. No guide needed. All very self-explanatory*.

In the mountains, you can climb (in summer) or ski (in winter). Everything else is peripheral. Resort towns such as Davos or Zermatt will of course offer other activities - spas, sailing, horse riding, ice-skating - but they are there merely for show. You're there for the mountains. Get up them - by fair means or foul.

Your Swiss host or companion may try to convince you that the various cable cars, funiculars etc are there only for the enfeebled, but don't listen! For merely an eye-watering amount of money, you can reach heights undreamed of by couch potatoes such as *coff* me!** And in winter, should you not be initiated in the mysterious rites of ski or snowboard, you might be able to slide down on a toboggan - utterly terrifying, yes, but addictively so.
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*Oh, all right, I will tell you one thing. I have developed a perfectly superstitious belief in Swiss shoes. Ever since a stroke of luck on my first visit, I have made a point of shoe shopping there**, and have always done extremely well. (On this recent trip, Beloved managed to find three fabulous pairs within an hour - nothing short of miraculous for someone who normally cannot be dragged into a shoe shop until the point of extreme podiatric desperation, and then struggles to find anything remotely suitable.) It's probably not that they're better made, or cheaper, than shoes elsewhere. I suspect it is, rather, that the Swiss shopping experience is more conducive (calmer than London, better stocked than SA), and the range available more classic, less trendy - hence more to the tastes of those, like us, who prefer not to replace our footwear every season.
Beloved would add, here, that anything Swiss made is necessarily made better. He may be right. It's also possible that Swiss shoes are made to be sturdier, given local conditions (i.e.: mountainous).
** This may sound like perfectly ordinary female behaviour, but I'm actually not an avid shopper normally, and not particularly hung up on shoes.
*** Nonetheless I would like you all to know that I CLIMBED THE JAKOBSHORN ALL BY MYSELF. See those capitals? I'm THAT PROUD.****
**** And would like you further to know that the fact I spent the next day nearly comatose and very unhappy had NOTHING to do with my lack of fitness for this exercise. It was the dodgy bratwurst. The bratwurst, I tells ya.

SGS: Culture and cuisine

As preparation for your stay, read Asterix in Switzerland. Accept every word as gospel*. Especially the bit about muddy footprints. The Swiss do not like dirt. If you visit a Swiss home, remove your shoes the second you cross the threshold. While in other countries this might be considered rude, your Swiss host will instantly wish to bear your child.

Cleanliness is ingrained in the Swiss psyche to an extreme and incomprehensible degree. Even pubertal skateboarders - who might daringly sport a single ear piercing - have a shiny pinkness that suggests their mothers have just finished scrubbing behind their necks. It's quite confusing to behold.

Of course, what those esteemed cultural commentators Goscinny and Uderzo omit to mention (no doubt for fear of reprisal; luckily I am more intrepid) is that William Tell (or whoever might be considered the father of the Swiss nation) made a pact with the devil. No, really, it's true. Consider: the Swiss diet consists almost entirely of animal fat and starch, yet the Swiss people are all slim and fit. It's the devil's work.

For those of us without the benefit of demonic dealings, I advise you to adjust your mindset. Forget anything you may have read about the supposed advantages of Atkins, the dangers of dairy or, for that matter, the curse of cholesterol. Prepare to enjoy breakfast of Nutella on bread**, lunch of bratwurst with bread and/or chips, and supper of fondue (bread and cheese). Or roesti (a potato dish that, as far as I can tell, requires the tubers to be first grated, then fried, then roasted with cheese, and possibly bacon or other toppings).

Fair enough, there are other menu choices, but these are typical (and, typically, the most appetising; stick a restaurant on a mountaintop, 3000m above sea level, and "captive audience" is the phrase that springs to mind). And the other options are still likely to be fried, roasted, or fried and roasted, and smothered in cheesy or creamy sauce. Not that I'm complaining. Obviously.

Then, of course, there's all the rumpunsch (hot rum punch, obviously) and nuessgipfel (nut tart), not to mention good Swiss chocolate. Mountain air makes you hungry. Especially when you've just climbed 1km in height.Which leads me to... activities: the next exciting chapter of the Scroobious Guide. Stay tuned.

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* Apart from Obelix's belief that Switzerland is flat. Even if you'd been dragged unconscious up and down the Alps, I can't imagine that from any point in the country you'd be able to look around without seeing mountain in every direction. Really not very flat at all.
**Or mueesli***, admittedly. But come on. You would choose cereal over Nutella?
*** Note for the unwary: "muesli" are, in fact, mice. "Mueesli" is breakfast cereal.
**** I am here using the German typographic convention of substituting an e for an umlaut on the preceding vowel. Anyone know how to do umlauts in Blogger?

Those Ukrainians are crazy

We interrupt our scheduled Swiss programming for a moment to bring you this delicious titbit:

The Ukrainian national anthem is "Ukraine is not dead yet".

That's the spirit.

SGS: Art and architecture

Ask a young child to draw a house, and s/he will render a cube with a pointy hat, windows evenly distributed. This is Swiss architecture. Now show that child pictures of, say, a few Greek temples or Victorian mansions. S/he might feel moved to elaborate his/her house by drawing on a few pillars, floral motifs etc. This is Swiss design. They don't build decoration into the structure, they paint it on afterwards. Once you get used to it, it has its own charm. Apart from looking like a country built entirely out of souvenir kitsch, that is.

While I'm not aware of any particularly Swiss schools of art*, there are a number of famous Swiss artists (including an architect, Le Corbusier; while not the kind of cubes I had in mind, nonetheless you will observe his distinctly blocky style). Theophile Steinlen is a personal favourite - yes, I have unsophisticated tastes - but of greater note is Paul Klee. And let us not forget Giger. You see? I told you - these Swiss are crazy.


There is also, in Davos, a museum devoted entirely to Ernst Ludwig Kirchner - a German-born artist who lived for a long time in the area, and painted it quite spectacularly. Look at the picture at top; imagine it on an enormous canvas, in thick paint, colours saturated and glowing. Imagine a room full of landscapes like that. Imagine another room with paintings of semi-abstract human figures and still lifes. I tell you seriously: breathtaking. Few exhibitions have impressed me that much.

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* Edit: obviously, I forgot about the birth of Dada. But these were artists in exile in Zurich, not actual Swiss artists. Hm...