Category: life

Does this make sense? I doubt

We went out for a pizza last night – a little celebration of sorts! As always, I had my accent radar on and tuned and was pleased that I got it right again: our waiter was a Zimbo!

We had a lovely conversation with this warm and friendly young man (as all Zimbabweans are), and he concluded that he had been following us around the world! He’d left Zimbabwe to live in South Africa before coming over to London last year.

I don’t mean to boast, but I can generally spot a Zimbabwean accent at 100 metres! Countless times we have been somewhere, I have heard a few words and I know that the person is Zimbabwean. Not that the accent is that different from Saffa, and I don’t know that I could describe the difference for you, but I can recognise it. My niece, who is Zimbabwean and lives in London, has a fridge magnet that states, “No, I am not from South Africa.” Rather like the one I’d like to have that says, “No, I am not Australian. Or Kiwi. Or from anywhere in Europe either, pinhead.”

We went out for breakfast with friends in Cape Town some time ago, and, as it was a cool and drizzly morning, we didn’t want to sit at a table on the balcony. We told our waiter we’d prefer to sit inside and asked if there was a free table for us. He glanced indoors and said to us, “I doubt.” That was it – I knew he was Zimbabwean, and he was!

Zim forrin is something else all together. I grew up with some of these words, and I know – having been away for so many years – there will be plenty of words to add or amend, so please feel free to give me your contributions, if you have any!

  1. Mush/mushi/mushi sterek (pronounced moosh): this means great, nice, wonderful, excellent, wicked. The sterek part adds extra emphasis. I used to use this word as a teenager, until I had it guffawed out of me by my cool Cape Town cousins who quickly replaced it with the much more street-cred-worthy “brilliant”.
  2. Penga: this means mad, crazy. When we heard about my husband’s job, we went penga.
  3. Neos/magic markers: growing up, it was a treat to have a set of these, instead of just pencil crayons. These are felt-tip pens. South Africans call them kokis.
  4. Kaylite: if you buy an electrical or electronic item, kaylite is the stuff that clads it inside the cardboard box. White, squeaky stuff that the rest of the world calls polystyrene.
  5. A few weeks ago I was chatting to my sister (who lives in Zim) and we were talking about Zimbabwean forrin. She said, “What about boppa it up with rekken?” Exactly, what about it? I said, “WTF?” (which means what’s that forrin?) She said, “You know if your hosepipe gets a hole in it, you use a piece of rekken (rubber inner tube from a bicycle or car tyre) to boppa (tie) it up and stop the leak.” Precisely.
  6. Sometimes Zimbabweans can’t cope up with things, when others might not be able to cope.
  7. There is a word that is not appropriate in print, that a lot of Zimbabweans use, which means very. I’ll illustrate. I was in Bulawayo with my sister some years ago and we bumped into a young friend of hers. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, she asked him how the recent youth meeting had gone. He said, “Eish! It was b….yf…ing difficult.” I asked her, afterwards, if he had just said what I thought he had just said. She said, “Yes. It means very.”

My elder son tore a ligament in his ankle, playing rugby, during his last year of school. He had to see an orthopaedic surgeon, and my husband took him to his first appointment. When they got back, I asked about the surgeon, what he was like, and my husband said, “He seemed fine.”

I took my son to his second appointment. Firstly, I nearly fell off my chair when I saw how fine he was (my husband didn’t tell me he was gorgeous! Well, I guess he wouldn’t…) Secondly, after listening to him chat to my son for about a minute, I realised he wasn’t a Saffa. After a while, I asked if he was Zimbabwean, and he was. Fortunately, he’d finished examining my son because we then chatted for about half an hour about Zimbabwe and everything we had in common through growing up there. My poor son shifted from moonboot to foot, shuffled on his crutches and quietly sighed. When we eventually left the rooms, he said to me, “I knew as soon as you asked him if he was Zimbabwean and he said yes, that we were in for a marathon.” Or words to that effect.

I was happy, mostly, when the ankle was healed and he had his last visit to the orthopaedic surgeon. Sigh.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Tuesday – a good day for a miracle

I’m a believer. And I so believe in miracles. One happened in our lives over the past week. I know because I was there.

I know I have bored you all yawn-less with my job-hunting tales and lack of success. So this is not about that. Well, not really. My husband, or, as one of my blogging buddies referred to him yesterday – and I just loved it! – Mr Sunshine decided, for a number of reasons, to take an intermission from his doctorate studies and join me in the fun pursuit of finding paid work. He had a very small taste of rejection (I still out-no him by a mile) as he applied for counselling or assistant psychologist posts. He was either not shortlisted, or shortlisted and interviewed, without success.

Last week, we felt like we were running out of options. We belong to a wonderful church, to a special small group in our church, and we have fabulous family and friends all around the world who have been praying for us and for things to shift. Last Tuesday morning, we two prayed with an increasing edge of desperation. What more could we do? Leaving London didn’t feel right; we were doing all we could and what was the next step? You all know my experience of looking for work here. So we left it up to God. It felt desperate, but it also felt liberating.

That very morning, my husband got a phone call out of the blue, regarding a job he had applied for a while back and for which he hadn’t even been shortlisted.  The job entails an element of study and someone had dropped out, so they had a place they wanted to fill. They invited my husband for an interview for that spot. The job interview happened a week later (yesterday, also Tuesday). He came home mid-afternoon not too sure how the interview had gone, but reassured that he would hear the outcome either way by the end of the day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon pretty much in silence. Writing and reading and getting on with what we needed to do. We couldn’t speak. The minutes ticked by in rhythm with our anxious heart beats. My stomach was in a knot. Six o’clock came. The phone still hadn’t rung. Seven o’clock came, still no call. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t take him on (they’d be crazy not to), but I also couldn’t imagine how good news would feel. I couldn’t bear the thought of another night of uncertainty.

At 7.15pm our phone rang. It was a call for my husband. They offered him the job. We high-fived, we screamed, we jumped and we cried. (The Royal we, of course.) We called our boys, we let everyone we could think of know the good news, and we thanked God for miraculous answered prayer.

So he starts next Monday. It is a counselling job, where he will spend three days a week as a counsellor in GP practices (doctors’ rooms) and two days a week at King’s College London, completing a Masters diploma in CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy), which will feed his career and earning capacity whether he continues with his doctorate or not. After a career in advertising, he now has a permanent, full-time job. Studying and doing the work that he loves and is so fabulously gifted – and called – to do. And for all that he’s getting paid.

For me, I can’t remember how good it feels to have the heaviness of pressure off my shoulders. And I’m realising that this is a gift for me too. My time to pursue my dream of writing. My time to shine. This is my time to sunshine. Thank you, Lord.

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me.
Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I thought love was more or less a givin’ thing,
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What’s the use in tryin’?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine I got rain.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I’m a believer: The Monkees

Sunshine signing off for today.

The meaning of Sunshine

When my boys were small they used to play hide and sneak, as they called it. My elder son would hide and my younger son would look for him. He would squeal and jump up and down with excitement when he found his big brother, and then it would be his turn to hide. He would always choose the same spot his brother had just hidden in until he learnt the value of finding his own hiding place.

So today it’s my turn to find my own hiding place. Well, I guess it’s exactly the opposite of a hiding place. My new blogging friend, the delightful and outrageously talented writer, Maura at 36×37, tagged me a few weeks ago and handed me a task, which is this: to answer some questions about myself and my blog. And then to tag some other bloggers in turn.

Here goes nothing!

1. If you could have any superpower, which one would you have and why?

I guess I can only be selfish in answering this question. I would choose the power to be in two places at once: in Cape Town and in London. Every day. To be able to skip between the two cities, without taking an 11 hour flight. My heart is in both places. London is our adventure, yet I yearn for my sons who live miles and continents away. My parents too.

2. Who is your style icon?

This question makes me want to laugh. Me? I have a style icon? If I wear clean clothes, dry my hair and brush my teeth, that’s me styled up.

I used to love Princess Diana’s style and I guess she was my style icon in the 80s and the 90s. And if I think back further, I loved the soap opera fashions of Dallas and Dynasty! I know that is sooooo uncool, but it’s the truth. I promised I wouldn’t hide.

When my younger son was small, we spent a few days off school and work together as he was unwell. For some reason, we sat and watched a few re-runs of Dallas on daytime TV. I told him how much I used to love the programme, and how I loved watching all the fashions. He swung round to me, looked me in the eye and asked, “Did those used to be fashions in the olden days?” I rest my case.

3. What is your favorite quote?

I have a few:

“Sometimes a sad man can speak the sadness right out through his mouth.” (John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath.)

“Is this tomorrow?” (my younger son, at age 3.)

“Quote me to your heart’s content, Mom. I’m k*k funny.” (my elder son, at age 22.)

“We don’t need a major bloody march past.” (A client of the PR consultancy I used to work for. We did loads of work for his company and I always remember this regular instruction to us.)

“That’ll do pig.” (Babe.)

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

“You’re cute.” A shy, drop-dead gorgeous student said this to me when I was 19 and at university. That was almost 30 years ago, and he still tells me that today.

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

Anything and pretty much everything by Van Morrison. He is the man.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I go to bed late in the hope I can sleep well, but I don’t, so I don’t wake early. In my previous, more ordered, life I would get up at 5.45am and start my week days with a 6.30 gym class and head off to work. So I guess, in an ideal world, I’m a morning person.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

I grew up loving dogs and not knowing cats. My husband and boys taught me to love cats, with a passion.

Some years ago, we were on a family holiday at the Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. We stayed over at a hotel, and were treated to some hilarity in the dining room that night. The waiter, who ground his teeth and kicked the kitchen door open as he entered and exited, stirred some hysteria in my sons and their cousins. When he came to take orders from the set menu, he asked each person in turn, “Beeffffffff or fishhhhhhh?” By the time he got to my son, he couldn’t resist answering, “Bothhhhhh.”

So, do I prefer dogs or cats? Bothhhhhhh.

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

I’ve been dying to tell this story! Sunshine in London has a kind of obvious ring to it, and I have mentioned before that it is both my nature and my intention to find sunshine in otherwise cloudy days. Our London adventure is exactly that, and we seek out fun and brightness in our everydays.

The deeper meaning is this: I worked for a non-government organisation in Cape Town during the 90s. This was the time that saw the end of apartheid and the birth of democracy in a nation that the world thought might implode. For me, it was the most amazing time of personal growth and learning that I have ever experienced in my life. I didn’t like how I thought or what my assumptions were and I worked hard, and with tears, to weave grace, respect and non-judgment into my life.

South Africa is a nation of 11 official languages, three of which are predominant in the Western Cape, where I lived. One of my friends and colleagues, who spoke all three languages (isiXhosa, Afrikaans and English), told me one day that she had been thinking about me, and thought it was time for me to have an isiXhosa name. She said she had chosen one that reflected who I was, and it was Nomalanga. This means “sunshine”. I carry the name, with love and pride, and humility, wherever I go.

So now it’s over to you! My mission, as I did accept it, was to answer the questions, and then tag another bunch of bloggers to do the same. So consider yourselves tagged:

If any other reader wants to take up the challenge, please feel free to do so. And do – all – let me know when you’ve written your pieces, as I’d love to read them.

Sunshine, Nomalanga, signing off for today!

I’ll be there now now

It’s Friday and time for a bit more forrin! I’ve been having fun gathering ideas from friends and thinking of new things that we Saffas say funny, and things that I hear here that make me laugh, frown, or nod in ignorant bliss!

My husband saw a status update on his Facebook page this morning from a university colleague. It said, “… is feeling so baffed!” We have yet to discover whether this is a good or a bad thing, but where I come from, that word is more likely to be used like this: “Have you just baffed?” you might ask a family member (usually male), usually with your nose crinkled, waving your hand back and forth in front of your nose.

As soon as I know the meaning of the word in the UK, I’ll let you know. I must say, we both looked at each other and laughed when we saw that this morning. Then I said to my husband, “Have you just ….?” (Not really!)

So here goes:

  1. Chuffed: I think this is common to SA and the UK, but I’m not so sure my friends across the pond know this word – it means pleased, self-satisfied. “I am really chuffed that you are reading my blog.”
  2. Round the houses: this is something I’ve heard quite often here. It means to take a circuitous route, to take a while to get to the point. A bit like my blog.
  3. Mine/yours: here, you might receive an invitation like this: “Would you like to come round to mine for coffee, or would you rather I came to yours?” I am used to saying “my place” or “my house”, so this takes a bit of getting used to.
  4. It does what it says on the tin: I heard this often at my temporary job earlier this year, and also on the news here. It means “say what you mean” and “as simply as possible”.
  5. Yobbo: I realise I’ve used this word quite often in my blogs, and again, I’m not sure that my US and Canadian friends are familiar with the word. It is in common use in the UK, and quite a bit in SA, and, according to Wikipedia (who knows EVERYTHING!) it means “uncouth or thuggish working-class person”. Apparently it is derived from the back slang of the word “boy” = “yob”. Now I didn’t know that part either!
  6. For crying in a bucket: This is something my mom says regularly, and I just love it! (And her.) It means, “Oh, for goodness sake.” Or “Good grief!”
  7. Oh my sack: an SA version of OMG, or Oh my word! Don’t ask me its origins, I don’t want to know!
  8. Larney: this SA word means posh, smart, rich. Depending on where you come from in SA, and your accent, it might also be laahney.
  9. Make a plan: this is a fabulously SA expression. I don’t know if it reflects the SA laid-back way of life (read: slackness) but it means, “I’d love you to come and have a meal with us some time. But I have no idea when we will do that. But it will happen. Some time. Just don’t hold your breath.” An example of this would be two people bumping into each other at the shopping mall (or, as some people in SA say, two people who got each other by the mall) and, after exchanging small talk, one saying, “Lovely to see you. We must get together soon. Let’s have a braai!” (pronounced bry and it means barbecue) And the other will say, “Ja, that sounds good. Let’s make a plan.” And that, usually, is that.
  10. Make a turn/pull in: this is very SA, and not everyone uses these expressions, especially not those who are larney. For example: “Where you going now?” 
    “No, man, I’m just on my way home.”
    “Why don’t you make a turn/pull in by us?” (that means come and visit us on your way).
  11. By us: this means at our home, at our place. Or, if you’re British, ours.
  12. Now/now now/just now: this is Saffa at its enigmatic best. These words can be used interchangeably; all of them mean “now” but “now” can mean ANY time, like: this very minute, in five minutes time, tomorrow, next week, or it could even mean five minutes ago. I’m now there is something my sons say, which means “I’m on my way.”

Saffas also say no when they mean yes. If you ask a Saffa how he is, he might reply: “No, I’m fine thanks. Can’t complain.” Or you might say, “So, will you be able to do that, do you think?” and the reply might be, “No, that should be fine. No problem. I can’t see why not.”

A few months ago we were invited to have lunch with some friends of ours from church. They had other guests there that day, and one young woman was particularly fascinated by our accents. She had known other Saffas and she giggled when she heard us say certain words. After lunch our host offered us coffee and asked if we had our coffee black or white. We both responded, “White,” which to other ears probably sounds like whart. Our new young friend couldn’t contain herself, and asked me if I would say that into her phone so she could record it and send it to her friend. I had to say, “Would you like your coffee black or white.” and I overdid the accent. She duly sent it off, and was well chuffed with herself!

I could well have said to her, as my mom says, “I’m not a performing flea.” But being an obliging Saffa, I said to her, “Sure, no problem. I can’t see why not.” You see, we Saffas always make a plan.

Sunshine signing off for the weekend! See you next week, friends!

Men in skirts

Wednesday, and I’ve got tartan on my mind. I’m married to a Scotsman, you see. And every now and then I stop and think about things he says, and things I now say, and I realise a lot of these things are well forrin.

Just to clarify – my husband was born in Africa. His parents and elder brother, who was a toddler at the time, left Scotland to seek their fortune in warmer, African climes and my husband was born there a few years later. My parents-in-law lived in Africa for the rest of their lives – around 40 years – and they both had broad Scottish accents till they passed away. Something that I find so sweet is that my husband and his brother both had broad Scottish accents until they started school – until the pressure to sound like everyone else overwhelmed their little minds and they learnt to blend in just fine!

We travelled to Scotland as a family when our boys were ten and twelve. We stayed with wonderful relatives and were also on a mission to meet some long-lost, newly-discovered relatives, but that’s a story for another day. It was so interesting to see how at home my sons felt in the land of their father and his people, and how intrigued they were with their Scottish heritage. By the time we left, they both wanted kilts in the family tartan and, if we’d had an arm and a leg to spare, we would have indulged them.

My husband has since inherited two kilts, and these are worn with much pride at any suitable occasion: my elder son wore one to his Matric (school leaving) dance, and both sons wore kilts to their cousin’s wedding in Cape Town last month. The five boy cousins together in family tartan kilts looked just fabulous and, of course, made the faraway (in miles) mother in me weep at the sight. My younger son is dreadlocked, and made a wonderful McRasta. Gorgeous boys.

Some years ago, my husband wore his kilt to a very posh, advertising awards ball in Zimbabwe. He went to the bathroom early on in the evening and the bathroom attendant (I told you it was a posh place) said to my husband as he exited, “Oh! I thought you were in the wrong bathroom.”

So here’s some Scottish forrin:

  1. Gibbles – this means stuff, or things. For example, my husband’s bedside table is full of gibbles.
  2. Bairns – we have two of them. They are big bairns now. Children.
  3. Bo’heed – my parents in law used to chuckle if they called anyone a bo’heed (usually their grandchildren) – it is used affectionately, to mean big head. “I canna’ see the TV, will you move yer bo’heed?”
  4. A Scottish friend at work said once, pointing at the desk of the absent manager, “Where’s his nibs?” This made me laugh out loud, as I’ve heard it so often from my family … It is used slightly mockingly to refer, in their absence, to someone of self-importance, usually someone in authority.
  5. My new blogging buddy, Wendy, is about ages with ma’sel’. This means she is about the same age as I am.
  6. Dreich – this means cold, damp and miserable, and refers to the weather. We’ve had real dreich days in London this week – autumn has shown its tawny face.
  7. If you’re talking nonsense, a Scotsman will say you’re talking blethers.
  8. If you’re mean to me, I’ll greet. And it’s not a pretty sight. Greet means to cry.
  9. My mother-in-law used to leave things in the kitchen sink to steep (soak).
  10. If you’re called a tattybogle that’s not a compliment – it means you look a sight, like a scarecrow!
  11. One of my husband’s and my favourite pastimes is to bogle in shops – that means to look and browse.
  12. My father-in-law had some choice sayings, but they are not fit for the blog! But if he thought someone was not very attractive, he would call her coors but hamely. This is liked being damned with faint praise – coarse but homely. Ugly, but could be worse.
  13. Had yer weesht – this means be quiet, shush.

A dear, late uncle of my husband’s used to say the best thing to come out of England was the road to Scotland! We took that road at Easter, to travel up to Pitlochry in central Scotland (Perthshire) for the weekend. We checked to see what was happening there over the weekend and were so excited to see that the Red Hot Chilli Pipers were playing at the Pitlochry Festival Theatre!We booked tickets and went to see this fabulous Scottish phenomenon that played to a packed auditorium.

They call themselves a “bagrock” band, or “jock ‘n roll” and they play music – as their forthcoming new album says – for the kilted generation! They are fronted by three bagpipers, with two guitarists, two snare drummers (including a world champion snare drummer), a keyboard player, a drummer and occasionally some brass. Of course they all wore kilts, and they looked pretty darn fit! They played songs like Smoke on the Water, We Will Rock You, Hey Jude (they called it Hair Jood) and Clocks mixed with a bunch of traditional Scottish numbers. They sure made it a brilliant evening’s entertainment and, being Scottish, all the banter in between songs was really funny. I read that earlier this month, they played at BB King’s 42nd Street Blues Club in Manhattan. Go figure!

One of the opening acts was a Scottish duo of fiddler and guitarist who played a variety of choons, fabulously. The fiddler introduced each number including one that the guitarist had written, inspired by a trip to Egypt. It was called The First Time Ever I Saw Your Fez.

I’ll dedicate some future blogs to writing more about our trips up to Scotland and the beautiful country it is, filled with wonderful, warm and kind people. A country where humour is woven into the national DNA, and laughter is their battle-cry and for me, that’s my kind of people. My husband’s ain folk.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Taking it to the seats

The best part of our London adventure has been to see as much live music as our time and pockets will allow. We have treated ourselves to an embarrassment of concerts and gigs at the most amazing venues in and around London. Shall we eat or shall we see another concert? Hmmm, food can wait.

In the middle of summer, on one of the hottest days of the year – temperatures were well into the 30s, even mid-30s (I’m not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, or “old money” as they say here in London!) we went to see Diana Krall in concert at an outdoor venue. We honestly couldn’t have chosen a better day to do that. We arrived in Hampstead in the afternoon.

George Michael lives in Hampstead and he had, notoriously, driven into a Snappy Snaps photo shop in the early hours of a morning that week, heavily under the influence of an unknown substance. I laughed when I saw a sandwich board bearing this handwritten headline for a local rag: “George Michael drives into shop”. He was subsequently sentenced to four weeks in prison for that misdemeanour, and is currently fighting to be released on bail.

So on we continued to Kenwood House. It is a stately home, in the leafy suburb of Hampstead, and is used as a venue for outdoor concerts through the summer. It is really beautiful, the emerald green lawns roll from house to lake and on to the woods on either side and we languished next to a peaceful little lake to picnic before the show. As show time drew near, we made our way to the concert area, where row after row of brightly-coloured deck chairs awaited our arrival.  Our seats were near the front, and gave us a good view of the stage area which stood in sharp relief against the royal blue sky. The wooden deckchairs filled with fans, all eager for the show to begin.

What an amazing evening! Diana Krall is a fabulous musician, and we were so excited to see her live! She performed a huge variety of jazz numbers, accompanied by her talented band of drummer, double bass player and acoustic guitarist. She bobbed and weaved through her songs, and caressed the grand piano with such tenderness and skill I was in awe. A concert such as this, on a night such as this, in London – it doesn’t get much better than that!

On another hot summer’s day, we went to the O2 Arena in North Greenwich  to see Michael McDonald and Al Green. We live right next to the Thames, so we decided to travel along the river – we took the Thames Clipper and bounced along the rippling river to North Greenwich.

I am a huge fan of Michael McDonald, he is another one of my all-time favourites, and I’ve loved his music since his Shine Sweet Freedom days of the mid-1980s. In 1986 my husband and I went on a three-month holiday to the UK and Europe, and I remember sitting in a park in Amsterdam one chilly Sunday afternoon, under blue sky and icy wind, drinking Heineken beers and listening to the piped music of Michael McDonald and Patti LaBelle singing On My Own.

I digress.

We arrived at the O2 about an hour before the concert was due to begin. We sat down and soon a mountain of a man and his petite wife came to sit in the row in front of us. He said to me, “You’re not going to want me sitting in front of you, are you?” To which I said, “Not so much.” He duly sat down in front of me and blocked out the sun. Luckily when the lights went down we were able to shift along a few seats and both get a clear view of the stage!

To see Michael McDonald performing live was just unbelievable. He was sensational. We again needed three seats as I was beside myself, and I boogied myself silly in my seat! I did my ugly whistle at the end of each song. I think I annoyed the people on either side of me (yes, I do include my husband!) as I bobbed and jived and shimmied and shook my bones to the dulcet tones!  – what a relief when Michael shouted out, “School’s out!” and gave us the nod to stand up and dance – YAY! He sang everything that I know and love from Yah mo’ be there, to Shine Sweet Freedom, You belong to me, Taking it to the Streets, Minute by Minute, What a Fool Believes and he was joined by a local singer – Jaki Graham – who filled Patti’s high heels fabulously to join him for On My Own. He left the stage amid much protest from the fans, after an hour and a half of pure, beautiful, blue-eyed soul.

It was interesting to combine Michael McDonald and Al Green in the same concert. They had equal billing, they didn’t share the stage but brought their music from opposite ends of the soul spectrum.

The interval over, we made some noise for the Reverend Al Green. He entered from stage left, resplendent and melodramatic in dark glasses, suit and boots and carrying a bunch of long-stemmed roses. He waved with his other, white-gloved, hand. And so began the Reverend’s soul session, interspersed with the flinging of long-stemmed roses to adoring female (and male) fans in the audience. He sang his heart out through soul standards and smooth cover renditions. His three daughters doo-whopped in the background, and he was accompanied by an outstanding band that he ordered around with elegant, frilly, trilling fingers.

When the Reverend got excited, he would stamp his feet and slip his silk-lined jacket off his shoulders and on to the floor. He would pick it up and put it on again as he pulled himself together after each song.

I was less than impressed with the audience that night. After an absolute treat of songs like Let’s Stay Together and Let’s Get Married, part of the audience thought Let’s Get Outta Here, and started to leave the auditorium before the end of the concert. The Rev called out to them, reassured them he was on “no curfew” and yet he watched as a steady stream filed out. I guess it was to get ahead of the traffic but come on, London … you can do better than that! This was a one-night only show. Al Green was clearly not amused, and the show ended abruptly.

My husband is mad about American Idol-winner, Fantasia, and she had a one-night only, first-ever concert in London in May. This was held in IndigO2, within the O2 Arena complex. We had fabulous seats in the second row upstairs, and watched Fantasia perform to the writhing mosh pit in front of the stage.

She was incredibly energetic and passionate, she put her heart and soul in her songs and most of her wardrobe on the stage floor. I exaggerate … she threw her shoes off as she walked on to the stage, and got rid of her necklace and earrings and anything else that bothered her as she stomped and sang her way beautifully and emotionally through a range of old and new numbers.

She gave the organisers a headache, as she wanted to “feel” her people; the mosh pit was separated from the front of the stage by a barrier, and, when the people couldn’t come to Fantasia, she stepped down from the stage to come to her people. It was a wonderful concert, a treat to see her and experience her stage presence and vitality, and to enjoy a talent that we watched unfold on international television.

I stand in awe of such talent, of endless opportunity and of life in a city that breathes life into so many artists and actors and buskers and students and punters-who-watch. May I never take this for granted, and may I always jump around in thrill and excitement. And may we always need three seats.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Karma, grovelling and a parked car

We went out to some friends last night for supper, and apart from having some good old Cape Town natter and laughter (they are fellow Saffas), we all shared some interesting memories. Of good and bad times, challenging and fun times, and, for me, of times when I got things, well, just wrong!

I told them of a time some years ago when we were living in Zimbabwe. I was working as an in-house PRO for a computer company and, at the end of a busy Monday, I left the office and went to my car, which was parked in a central parkade. For some reason, that day, one of the parkade exits was closed so all the rush-hour traffic was heading towards the same exit, and nothing was moving fast. I stopped behind a long line of cars on the downward spiral towards said exit, when the car behind me rear-ended me. It made such a noise and I was not at all pleased. Livid, actually.

I stormed out of my car, ran to the rear bumper to see what damage this idiot had caused. I sighed and I sobbed and, to be honest, acted like a right proper prima donna. The poor guy who had driven into me was apoplectic with apology. He was, well, grovelling. He said, “I’m SO sorry, my foot slipped off the brake and I just couldn’t help it. I’m really really sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m so so so sorry.”

Being the ungracious wench that I was, I raised my eyebrows, allowed him to grovel a bit more and soon realised there was no damage to my or his car. Did I let the poor guy off the hook? Hell, no. I held on to his anguish and squeezed it in my palm till the sweat dripped from his brow. I cast him a sideways glance, turned on my heel, gathered my voluminous skirt and flounced back to my car. I might even have flicked my hair.

And here’s the thing. When I had jumped out of my car in anger, I left the motor running. The keys were in the ignition. And when my car door slammed, it slammed shut. Locked. My car door was locked. And I couldn’t get back in. All the cars in front of me had long since moved on, and the queue of cars behind me was growing apace and growing impatient. I. Could. Not. Get. Back. Into. My. Car.

Now what? Where to turn? What do I do? And did I mention that I was seven months pregnant? I’m just saying…

The poor guy from behind me could see something was amiss. Mainly because I couldn’t get back into my car. He walked towards me with something that looked like power, or maybe it was my karma I saw glinting in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” he ventured.

“Umm, I’m locked out of my car. The keys are there,” I said, tapping helplessly on the closed window of the locked car door.

“Maybe I can help you, let me see what I’ve got in my car,” he said as he ran off to his car to fetch something. He sauntered back to my car, and was that smugness I saw all over his face? He brandished a massive bunch of keys and said, “Let’s see if any of these work.”

He tried about five keys in my lock, and on the sixth attempt managed to unlock my car door. He held the door open for me to climb back into my car, and waited for me to gather my pride and dignity and pull it all back into the car with me. I looked up at him and said, “Thank you SO much,” before I slumped behind the steering wheel.

I don’t know what I was feeling at that moment. Angry. Embarrassed. Bemused. Blonde.

“No problem,” he said, as he turned on his heel and, dare I say it, swaggered back to his car, whistling, and twirling the keys around his fingers. I could swear I saw a fist pump before he jumped back into his car. But I couldn’t be sure of that as I’d already screeched off into the blushing sunset.

If ever I’ve had comeuppance run and slap me in the face, it was at that moment. It taught me the value of grace and reciprocity. And the value of the Biblical truth of “do unto others” … because when karma bites, it really hurts.

Sunshine signing off today.

My blog ate my homework

My new blogging buddy, Wendy, has set me a challenging task! She very kindly – mistakenly? – awarded me the Bloody Brilliant Blogging Award AND the Versatile Blogger Award about two weeks ago. She wrote kind and complimentary things about me on her blog; the ‘citation’ made me blush.

Wendy is almost my twin. We were born in the same month and the same year as each other. And Princess Diana. Wendy lives in Canada, is a loving fiancée, daughter, sister, mother and grandmother, who loves to write (which she does beautifully, prolifically and with wonderful humour). She loves her family, gardening, eating out and music. She was one of the first “strangers” to visit my blog, and she and I now chat across the miles and the blogosphere every day. She is a kind and encouraging person. She has gathered so many caring people around her who clearly love her and her writing equally. Have a read of her blog, Herding Cats in Hammond River, and you’ll see what I mean.

On accepting the award, I accepted the challenge to write seven things about myself that I might not have mentioned before, and to pass on the award. I have also been tagged by Maura at 36×37 who has set me an equal task. More about Maura and the task coming to a blog near you. Soon.

I would like to pass on these awards from Wendy to a blogger whose work I love and admire: emily at in the hush of the moon. She describes herself as “..author, journalist, and artist …. more … and i am believer … – here, i seek grace in grunge of every day”. Her blog is beautiful, brilliant, her writing sublime. I know that this task won’t match the style of her blog, so I am passing on the awards to her, without the obligation. Have a look at her blog, you’ll be blessed and amazed.

Seven things I might not yet have mentioned about myself:

  1. I went to six different schools. My father was a bank manager and was transferred from city to town to village around Zimbabwe and Zambia, while I was growing up. I started my schooling in Lusaka, Zambia, finished it in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, and went to university in Cape Town, South Africa. I went to boarding school when I was nine.
  2. I am the youngest of four. I have an older sister and two older brothers. I have never outgrown the “don’t forget about me” syndrome, and the desperate need to be taken seriously. I was once facilitating on a course, and arrived for the pre-course briefing about a minute after it had started. The course leader apologised and said she hadn’t noticed I wasn’t there yet. I said “It’s ok. I’m the youngest of four. No-one notices me.” I said it tongue-in-cheek, kind of, but it led to quite an interesting discussion around how our birth place can often determine our world view. I’d be interested to know your thoughts!
  3. I never went to detention at school. Not once. I don’t even like driving over a solid white line.
  4. I had my nose pierced about five years ago. My niece thought I was having a mid-life crisis. I thought I had a rush of blood to my head. But I’m pleased I had it done. I wear a tiny diamond stud, however I won’t ever do anything like that again. For those of you who’ve not been through such self-inflicted torture before, my nose felt like a tomato with a healthy, shiny red skin that popped as the needle penetrated. I can still hear the ‘pop’ sound, and it still makes my eyes water.
  5. I was part of a singing group when I was in high school. The group was called Agape (love) and we used to write our own songs. Actually, Anne and Rachel were the talented ones who wrote the songs. The rest of us made coffee, made jokes, cheered them on and made sure they didn’t get distracted. And then we’d sing. We had a uniform of long, African-print kaftans. We thought we were really cool. Looking at the photos now … regrets? I’ve had a few. That uniform is one of them.
  6. I once faked a finger injury to get out of doing lino-printing in my high school art class. I sat in the corner of the art room with a bandage on my hand for about four double periods in a row. I hated art classes. For me, they were hell. And my art teacher was the devil.
  7. I’m mad about sports. I was a swimmer, in my day, and was a keen tennis and squash player. I only gym these days, but I love watching sport – tennis, rugby, soccer (football in UK language), and sometimes cricket and golf. I learnt to play golf when I was about ten (I haven’t played again since then) and told someone that I was a natural, and had a natural swing. I didn’t realise that that was not for me to say. Oh, and I laugh at my own jokes.

So, those are some things you might not have known about me. Are your lives richer for knowing these gems about me? Not so much, but at least I can tick this homework assignment off my list. I don’t want Wendy to send me to detention.

Sunshine signing off for today!

My life on the island

Job hunting in London can be fun. Not. Ever. It feels like my working life is a reality TV programme, and I keep getting voted off the island. And I have to keep going back on to the island to be voted off again!

If I could do anything that meant I could cease the hunt, and leave the island of my own volition, I would do so in a heartbeat.

I send off applications and the wait feels like a results programme, complete with a loud heartbeat soundtrack. “And the winner is ….. not you!”

Please don’t feel sorry for me! That’s not the purpose of my writing about this. I’m a survivor. While I do allow myself the indulgence of self-pity every now and then, I keep praying and going and know – through gritted teeth – that this thick skin I’m growing will serve me well. One day.

I recently applied for a writing job with a charity based in central London. I sent in the detailed application form (it wasn’t the one where I mentioned mud-wrestling with Mathew McConaughey, promise!) and waited to hear if I’d been shortlisted. A few days after the closing date, I had heard nothing, so I knew I’d been unsuccessful.

However, I decided to make sure. I sent an email enquiry, and got a reply, which is unusual; I guess I should be grateful for small mercies. The emailer advised me that unfortunately I’d not been shortlisted, but said I was welcome to call her for some feedback. I arranged a suitable time to do so.

We eventually spoke at the end of the day yesterday. She said I had completed the form well and my application was strong. (“Good girl! You made that song your own.”)

She said the fact that my experience was largely South African, was a key factor. (This is the first time I’ve been told that directly, and somehow it felt discriminatory. “We don’t know that song. Is it big in your country?”)

She went on to say how inundated they’d been with applications, and also gave me some feedback about my style of writing, and saying that how I wrote the application form did not fit their brand. Fair enough. And whatever. (“Maybe you need to work on your vocals.”)

However, the gem is yet to come…

She said to me, “If I can give you some advice as you continue your job hunting, it would be to get as much UK experience as possible.” Seriously?

All possible responses escaped me. All I could do was listen in bemused silence. Gob-smacked, that’s what I was! What I really wanted to say was, “And you are the weakest link. Goodbye.”

Sunshine signing off for today! The tribe has spoken.

London, alive and screaming

Today, I thought I would take you on a journey to some fun London venues, and tell you about some wonderful new, up-and-coming artists that we’ve seen while we’ve been here. We’ve also seen some old and fabulously well-worn artists, who I’ll write about another time.

There are SO many things that I love about London. (Like you haven’t heard that one before!) But one thing that stands out above the crowd for me is just how much everyone loves London! Every day we read about interesting people who are visiting London; if it’s not the Pope (and I just loved the comment I heard on the radio on Sunday, by a young teenager in Birmingham who’d seen the Pope. She said, and try and imagine a nasally Birmingham accent saying this: “He was amazing. He’s kind of like a celebrity. But holy.”), it’s actors here for their movie premieres, singers and bands on concert tours, cricket teams on match-fixing tours, politicans, philosophers, bankers, chefs and models. And, of course, there are people like my husband and me, people from every nation and continent and language and race and accent and religion you can imagine. This heaving mass of humanity, the focus of so much attention, in such a small country. I stand in awe and constant fascination.

It is also the place musicians flock to if they want to “make it” on the music scene. There are weekly magazines and websites that list gigs that happen each week in London, and these number in their hundreds. My husband and I grab any opportunity we can to go and see new artists whose names we may not at first know, but whose gift of music is outstanding, and whose music we now love and share and will follow.

My husband is something of a music geek. He absolutely loves music and anything to do with it. He reads about new artists, tests out their wares on iTunes, and checks out who’s performing where and when. He found out about a young singer/songwriter called Diane Birch, and was so excited to read of a “one and only” performance in London in March. A lovely friend of ours was staying with us at the time, so the three of us went to the Vibe Club in Brick Lane (east London) to watch her performing. If you haven’t heard of her, check her out. She’s a young American singer/songwriter whose talent is incredible, and way beyond her 20-something years. Her style is folk, country, soulful – and she has enjoyed some commercial success with one of her songs, Valentino, which was featured on the soundtrack of an Ashton Kutcher movie, Valentine’s Day. We stood in the small club and enjoyed the treasure of an evening of her brilliant music.

Brick Lane is the best place in London (well, one of them) to get a good, genuine curry (in London people talk about “going out for an Indian”, meaning an Indian meal!). As you walk along the length of Brick Lane, restaurateurs stand in their doorways, touting their menus and trying to encourage you to patronise their spot. After our concert, we headed purposefully towards the far end of Brick Lane in search of one of the legendary bagel shops that stay open 24 hours a day. We found them – there are two right next to each other! – and had a the most delicious smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels ever! At £1.50 a pop (a steal, I tell you), it wasn’t surprising that we “mmm, yummmmm’ed” all the way back down the Lane!

After my birthday in July, we went to see Diane Birch for a second time. It was another unique performance at an outstanding venue in Notting Hill. What a beautiful area that is! If you’ve seen the movie, Notting Hill, you will know what I mean! And being there in person was even more fabulous. Streets of unique little shops selling antiques, vintage clothing, unusual clothing and all sorts of other interesting things! And the houses are just stunning – three and four storey Victorian terraced houses, really beautiful! I want to live there when I grow up! We saw a house for sale there (between £2million and £5million!) – and thought we’d wait until I got a job before we put in an offer!

The concert venue, The Tabernacle, is a beautiful old refurbished church building which dates back to 1888. When it is not hosting well-known and less well-known artists in concert, it is a community centre where you can learn Spanish, capoeira, ballet, belly dancing or zephyr yoga. Its history is remarkable. Diane Birch performed without her backing band this time, although she had a guitarist in tow, and it was another gift of an evening. Quite lovely.

Another concert that my husband discovered was a young, English singer called Rox. We arrived at The Scala in King’s Cross good and early for the 7.30pm start, and immediately realised we were in the minority in a queue-full of youngsters. We were relieved to see some older punters join the queue and, once inside, and the crowd started gathering, we realised we were not the oldest there! The Scala also has an interesting history, having been built as a cinema which was nearing completion just before the First World War began, and which was used as a labour exchange for demobbed soldiers in 1918.

What made the evening all the more special for us were the two opening acts: a young singer/songwriter from Jackson, Tennessee, called Lauren Pritchard. She was first up on the evening programme and, at that stage, there were probably about 30 people in the venue. I couldn’t believe the whole of London wasn’t there watching her and cheering her on – what an amazing voice, a beautiful talent, and achingly soulful songs. I loved her!

Next up was an English singer/songwriter called Liam Bailey. His reggae style songs take you on journeys through pain and triumph, joy and angst; another young, soulful and generously talented young singer. Rox is a tiny dynamo of a singer. And she’s about 12. Actually, she’s 21 and has a big voice, a delightful personality and gave a rocking performance. The tickets cost us just £10 each: what a privilege to be able to enjoy such talent. These are all artists to watch – please check them out and let me know what you think.

One of my most precious friends in Cape Town is the only person I know who’s seen The Beatles live. She went to a concert in London when she was 14, and wasn’t too fussed – although quite intrigued – about these Liverpool lads who had turned the music world on its head. She decided, before she went in, that she wasn’t going to scream and swoon like all the other silly teenage girls, and she stood in the queue, with her painted-on eyelashes and seriously mini skirt, resolute that she would stay cool . Once she got inside, she screamed her voice hoarse with the rest of them – she got totally caught up in the moment. She didn’t know at the time, but she was watching history in the making. Hell, that’s enough to make anyone scream!

Sunshine signing off for today.