Sunday, May 25, 2014

The Atlantic




The Atlantic has featured heavily in our lives this week.

The dark cloud of the missing yacht 'Cheeki Rafiki' hung over us all week as we waited anxiously for updates, helped with the petition to get the Coastguard out again and sifted through satellite pictures looking for the life raft. The news on Friday was heart breaking.

Mid-week we heard that James has been accepted into Michaelhouse, a boarding school in the foothills of the Drakensburg - just about as far away as one can get from a tropical island in the West Indies. Much of the week was also spent soberly pondering our new Trans-Atlantic lives.


On top of all of this, the boys also acquired their first boat, a Lazer Vargo and are planning on sailing it around the islands during the Summer holidays. Georgie has been busy drawing up charter maps of their planned routes a la Swallows & Amazons. I was a bit alarmed when I heard them talking about camping on Fallen Jerusalem.


Many of the yachts and catamarans here in the Caribbean are built in Cape Town and are 'delivered' across the Atlantic by young crews. Given that the boys are about to live in South Africa for half the year, are avid sailors and live in the Caribbean,  it is probably not too far-fetched to expect them to be sailing across the Atlantic in the future.

The skipper of Cheeki Rafiki was only 22 years old, nine years older than James. I could so easily imagine  his mother anxiously pouring over blurry satellite pictures and saying stoical things like "he was doing what he loved best". How brave mothers have to be.

Being the parents of three boys, we've already encountered our fair share of concussions, knocked out teeth  and black eyes. We encourage adventure and independence. Nothing prepares one for a broken keel in the middle of the Atlantic however.

This week has haunted me.  I have keenly felt the mortality of my own children. In the very week that we know we have to start letting them go, it has also been the week that I've wanted to hold them tight and never let go.


Rest in Peace









Sunday, May 18, 2014

Climbing mountains

Watching the BVI Dinghy Champs from Emily's balcony and Nanny Cay (Photo Credit: BVI Beacon)

The boys have been racing all weekend as it's the BVI Dinghy Championships and Tyler has made over 200 rolls for lunch. I've ventured down both days and it has been good to get out a bit again. Hardly a hardship, as you can see.

James's first Red Fleet race. Photo: BVI Beacon

With fellow team member Amalie Clark. Photo by Ed Childs

It's been an up and down week.  I'm getting stronger by the day but am still left chronically tired after the smallest exertion, which frustrates the hell out of me. I am going to have to start back at square one to build my core strength up again which had me feeling pretty depressed this week at the thought of it all. Since I don't find exercise or gym easy to do even when I'm fighting fit, this feels like a steep mountain to climb. Anyway I've given myself a stiff talking too (several in fact) and I'm going to start by walking up and down our hill once a day  with some very loud music on the old Shuffle.

I also feel completely saturated by the World Wide Web. It's enough! I don't think I can look at another Pin Board or read another food blog or scroll through endless artisan websites anymore. The relentless number of kale and quinoa recipes becomes mind-numbing after a while and there are only so many Habitually Chic lives I can look at before I want to run off and join the Baader Meinhof gang.

I almost felt compelled to knit this week, which tells you how bad things were getting as I despise knitting.

I've now tidied up the study and my desk. I even sharpened some pencils. I'm going to try a bit of work in town on Tuesday which will also take my mind off things as we hear about James's school application this week. There is no Plan B so it could be an interesting week.

On a positive note I feel rejuvenated on the bakery front. I've spent time trying new recipes, redesigning our packaging and sourcing potential products and stuff for our 'new' venture, if it ever comes off. It's quite easy to get burned out by it all, but I seem to have reconnected with my inner Domestic Goddette with all this time spent at home.

I promise not to Instagram any of it.



Sunday, May 11, 2014

My Mother

Barbara, April 2014, Cape Town. Photo by  granddaughter Paula Mills

Don't you think that too much emphasis is placed on youth and 'start-ups' nowadays and not enough at the other end of the spectrum? Old age seems to be synonymous with the ghastly state of old age homes, Alzheimers (which my father had) and "old people" as opposed to people who are just older doing interesting things.

My mother has recently turned 85 and lives on her own in Cape Town. She is a testament to how vital and relevant and independent one can be at her age. She is passionately engaged with global news, political debates and the latest trends.  Her most common expression is "I saw an interesting programme on BBC the other day..." She cuts out news articles for me on stock prices, old friends and restaurant reviews and sends them 9000 miles to the other side of the planet along with a coffee mug for my birthday with "I love cooking with wine...Occasionally I add food" on it, as it reminded her of me.

My mother grew up during the war on the outskirts of London. After an unexploded bomb was discovered at "the bottom of the garden" her family moved into a rather grand country house hotel along with a coterie of eccentric Polish countesses and other colourful Mittel  European refugees. As her convent school was also bombed at much the same time, she spent her days playing snooker, golf and bridge with all the old dowagers and became particularly good at darts.

After the war, there was "no point in going back to school" so off she went to Wimbledon School of Art  where she met my father and promptly married him at 17. They lived in a gypsy caravan next to the Epsom racetrack with yet more old duchesses and 'real' gypsies until she had my first brother, Paul.

Despite my suburban childhood, my mother always retained this slightly bohemian quality. She dressed me in pink and navy tweed when everyone else was in Seventies dungarees with heart patches. My father gave her beautiful Persian jewellery and she had her hair done by the bouffantted 'Mr' Piaonni himself, the last word in Cape Town Sixties chic. She always wore Arpege perfume and put on red lipstick ("it's important for yourself, really") before fetching my  father from Pinelands Station promptly every afternoon at 5:30pm.

She taught me how to read silver hallmarks, made all my clothes and scoffed at shop bought biscuits. We collected pine ring mushrooms on the winter slopes of Table Mountain and ate them with real crumpets dripping with butter in front of our fire at 5 Rheezicht, with the ersatz 'river stone' wallpaper on the chimney piece.  We ate bacon and egg sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper on Bloubergstrand every Sunday morning before going for a "good walk" along the lovely, hard sand and she made me homemade play dough before it became a symbol of Pinterest Good Mumminess.

As I write this, I realise how keenly I am like my mother. How her 'everydayness' has become me and how I am in my own home, with my children.

We are both strongly opinionated and unsentimental and we argue like sisters, trade harsh words and drive each other to distraction. We admire and respect each however, which I think I prefer. I love her so much it aches.

My mother is the only one of my family left in South Africa apart from my brother who lives on the other side of the country on an isolated farm, miles from anywhere. The rest of us are sprinkled to the remote corners of the globe.

What a difference the big tech companies could make if they invested in teaching computer skills and internet saviness to the over 70's. Imagined if they opened up social media to this generation and gave them access to all the wonderful information and ease of communication out there. Think of all the possibilities and good use that such stylish, wise and interesting people would put it all too as opposed to the infinitely shallow and narcissistic culture of 'selfies' and 'My Perfect Life'  which is so all-pervasive.

No doubt as the twenty year old Silicon Valley techies age we will see this shift, but I want it now. I want my Ma on Twitter and Pinterest and FaceBook. It would be hilarious but it would also mean that I could hear her say "did you see that programme on BBC after the news last night? You must, it was riveting. Here's a link".








Thursday, May 8, 2014

In a pickle


Balcony sundowner sans Gin & Toto

I had way too much excitement yesterday as Cessie and I cooked up a storm trying to re-stock the bakery with our traiteur range (in one go, it seemed) so I'm back in bed today. No lecturing please. I keep thinking I'm stronger than I actually am. Found to my horror a few days a go I can't even open a bottle of tonic (I can manage a can) so no sundowner G & T on the balcony, which was pretty shocking.

The Guilty Culprit: Piccalilli


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Sunday, May 4, 2014

Hrmph

Polka on Rotation. At least he's reading the music here

I am getting stronger day by day now and can even feel mozzie bites again which I havn't felt for weeks (as my skin surface is numb) and best of all I've almost got my sense of taste back, but in the process seem to have lost my sense of humour. Such a weird feeling not being able to taste. Mealtimes became quite joyless without the pleasure of eating. I'm also walking unassisted now around the house and can maneuver the staircases - which has been a big leap, well totter maybe, forward.

It was my birthday on Tuesday. Thank goodness for Facebook, otherwise the day would only have consisted of bed, a good book and 12 hours of complete silence apart from a few lovely long-distance phone calls. Not exactly celebratory, but peaceful all the same.

The crap truism of being too weak to make the most of all the downtime also frustrates the hell out of me. The omnipresent Baby Books, for example, are always there to haunt me. I've so far managed James's first year, which only leaves me with 31 years to catch up. My fine motor skills are shot however and we don't have any photographic developing on the island - so I've got quite a good excuse this time round. The deadline has to be the first grandchild I'd imagine, so a few more years of self-abasement and guilt to go.

I've now watched just about everything there is to see on the iPlayer and have used up my social media quota for the next 5 years. I'm am getting up every morning now and on Thursday was able to help Georgie prepare for his RCM piano exam. Although I plonked back into bed completely exhausted afterwards, I did shed a few frustrated tears at not being able to accompany the boys to their exams.

It's been nearly 6 weeks now with this ghastly 'thing' and I am the worlds most impatient person. The severity of it has been all encompassing, but recovery must surely be on track if the personality is starting to default back to type? I start physio next week and am looking forward to re-building this rather broken body. I'm also working hard on keeping the serenity but regaining the sense of humour.

In the meantime though I'll just keep  hrmpphing like Eyeore in Winnie The Pooh and ignoring the plastic chips which are meant to be made into beanbags.Uncompleted Project Number 350.