Category: my life

How to win friends and interview people

I don’t know if it started with my sons’ response to me showing them my 70s disco dance moves. Or if I said it to my husband when he was trying to speak like a Jamaican. But somewhere along the line, in our family, we started to say, “Let’s not do that.”

Yesterday, I took great delight in unsubscribing from all the job alerts I had signed up for. My email inflow has dropped drastically but what a pleasure not to have to wade through all of those. It also got me thinking about something else I won’t have to do again (for a while, I hope!) now that I have a job: I won’t have to go for interviews.

Now that I am able to start reflecting on my interviews with a sense of amusement rather than failure, I thought it might be helpful – a public service, perhaps – to provide some feedback to interviewers, from an interviewee’s point of view. And I thought what better way to approach it, than to say, “Let’s not do that.”

1. Let’s not freak out the interviewee

I had an interview last year with an HR manager and a head of communications. The HR manager asked me a few random questions, then sat back, rested her chin between her thumb and forefinger, and gave me the hairy eyeball. She just stared at me. The head of comms grabbed the mic and asked me a few questions, but it was hugely off-putting to have another pair of eyes drilling into the side of my head. She was also the one who said, “Lovely to meet you.” Perhaps she wanted me for dinner.

2. Let’s not play games

A few months ago, I applied for a job and got short-listed. The recruiter called me to tell me I had been short-listed and invited for interview. I was thrilled (as I always was!) and, during the course of the conversation, I asked her how many people had been short-listed. She immediately said, “Ooh, I can’t tell you that!” O-o-k-a-a-a-y…

My interview was preceded by a test. I arrived at my designated time, was met by a frazzled HR person who failed to introduce herself but just dragged me upstairs to the test venue. She – seriously – kept the test paper face down as she looked at her watch and synchronised her time with the clock on the wall. She was almost hyperventilating and then told me she didn’t know whether she was Arthur or Martha. I said to her, “Have you had a busy day?” Her instant retort was, “I’m not going to answer that because you just want to know how many people have been interviewed.” How about, no? How about, that’s the question I would have asked anyone in a similar state of frazzled-ness?

She then waited for the exact second at which to turn the test paper over, and my 30 minutes began. Good afternoon, Miss.

3. Let’s not interview in a warehouse-sized boardroom

When my above 30 minutes were up, I was met by one of my prospective interviewers. He escorted me to the interview room, which was the biggest boardroom I have ever seen. The three interviewers were scattered around the table and I could have done with a megaphone to answer their questions audibly. Shouting through cupped hands seemed to do the trick, but I didn’t get the job.

4. Let’s not interview at the gym

A few months ago I was invited to interview for a job in an organisation similar to the one I worked for in Cape Town. The interview was to be held at a Club in Chelsea, near the Thames. It sounded like a maritime-themed Club, and I envisaged it to be a business club, where you can hire a meeting room for such occasions. I arrived at the venue, walked through the door and realised this was a gym. I panicked a bit as I thought I’d got the wrong venue. I approached the uniformed woman at the reception desk and said to her, with a question in my voice, that I was there for an interview and I told her with whom. She smiled and nodded and took me through to the coffee shop where two women were waiting to interview me. With the overwhelming aroma of chlorine floating through the room, people coming and going and meeting up after or before their daily workout, shouts and screeches and splashes all around, I had an interview at a gym coffee shop. Funnily enough, this was the job I didn’t get because I was “too nice”. Perhaps I should have walked in and said to them, “WTF, guys?” (Why The Funny-venue?)

5. Let’s not panic

About six weeks ago, I got a frantic call at 8am on a Monday morning. It was a recruiter who could barely speak through her worried breath. She told me of two jobs she was recruiting for, and asked if I was interested. I said they sounded interesting and would be happy for her to email the job specs through to me (as is usually the case). She said she needed to know that moment as she had to get back to the employers.  (They’d called her at 7 that morning to brief her on two jobs that needed responses by 8.30? I don’t think so.)

I then outlined my concerns about the jobs, given that they were looking for someone with local media contacts. I reminded her that, while I had media experience, I didn’t have local contacts. In increasing panic, she said she would get back to me. I never heard from her again. Ever.

6. Let’s not wander off the subject too much

I have registered with about a million quite a few recruitment agencies. Some of them ignore you completely. Some of them invite you for an interview to put you on their books. At one such interview, the agent spent more time talking about her upcoming holiday in Cape Town, than my job requirements. Hmmm, thanks for that.

7. Let’s not interview like David Brent

I can’t say I had an interview exactly like this, but I did often feel like poor old Stuart in this clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NtfUn6b4NBY

8. Let’s not become a recruiter

Last year, I had an hour-long interview with a recruitment consultant. She had my CV in front of her, she asked me loads of questions, wrote copious notes all around the perimeter of my CV, gave me some useful advice about job hunting (I was new to London at that time), and said she would chat to her colleagues and get back to me about any job possibilities. I never heard from her again. Ever.

I know recruiters are inundated with applicants. But she never responded to any email I ever sent her, even when I asked about jobs her agency was advertising. To me, that was most bizarre. I would imagine that relationships are your stock-in-trade when you are a recruiter, and communication – and communication skills – should be a given for the role. If you don’t like dealing with people, find another career. Surely?

I met a woman at my gym in Cape Town a few years ago. She ran her own horticulture business. She told me she loved her work, she loved working with plants and the joy of watching gardens grow.

“I’m a plant person, you see. I’m not a people person. I like people, but I don’t think I could eat a whole one.”

Perhaps some recruiters should take note. And, interviewers, I hope you have found this feedback useful. You were all strong candidates but unfortunately you didn’t have the exact match of skills and experience that I was looking for and someone else gave me the job. Thank you for the time and effort you took in interviewing me.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Why banking was never my bag

My father worked in the bank. As far as I know, he started out as a messenger and worked his way through the ranks to management. He retired after over 46 years of service. That’s some kind of commitment.

He never worked with technology. He poo-poo’d the idea of using an adding machine, preferring to trust his accuracy in casting the numbers manually. A bank lived and died on the quality of relationships it developed with its customers, and personal service was unquestionably its biggest asset. Customers would go into the bank to withdraw or deposit funds, would get to know the tellers and would meet with the bank manager to discuss their accounts and requests for loans or overdrafts or new accounts.

A bank manager wielded much power and my father, jokingly, would talk about meeting customers at the doorway to his office. He would welcome them, shake their hands and invite them into his office. As he took his seat, he would invite his customer to take a seat opposite him. The response would be, “Thank you, sir, but I’m quite comfortable here on my knees.”

Apart from visits to my dad’s hallowed office, I, too, enjoyed two brief forays into banking. Although I am clearly my father’s daughter, banking was never going to feature big on my horizon.

My first taste of banking was a short, holiday job I took when I was home from university. Along with a bunch of students of similar ages and persuasions, I worked for a few weeks in the musty, upstairs offices of the Bulawayo branch. I have no clue what our task was, but I do remember loads of boxes of forms and paperwork, and we had to do something with them. Watching paint dry would have been riveting in comparison.

We’d shoot the breeze as we ticked boxes – or whatever it was that we did – and we took far too many coffee breaks and watched the clock till we could take lunch, or knock off. Three weeks passed by in slow motion and, happy with the money we’d earned, we bid each other a relieved farewell.

Another holiday job presented itself during my Christmas holidays that year. The bank was hugely busy and under-staffed during the frenetic Christmas period, so they called in some extra pairs of hands. My job, strange as it was that I chose to accept it, was deposits-only teller.  With no training and some brief instruction, I took to the wooden counter like a duck to, um, treacle.

I didn’t suck at maths at school, but it was not a subject that brought me much thrill. I can do things with numbers, but I’ve never really wanted to. So taking on a job that required me to count money and balance the books with monotonous, daily regularity, seemed a bizarre way of spending half of my summer holidays. The money must have been good.

The large, gracious banking hall in Bulawayo was an architectural masterpiece from a bygone era. High ceilings, wood-panelled walls and a sweeping, wooden horseshoe of telling booths welcomed customers into the hushed heart of the bank. A security guard would guide customers to a single line where they waited for one of the tellers to become free. The telling booths were open, allowing face-to-face contact between tellers and customers. This was before the need for tellers to have reinforced, bullet-proof glass protecting them from their customers.

A second line was formed for deposits-only customers. My heart sank as the line grew daily and, as Christmas Day approached, my line dwarfed the other. It might also have been because I was slow. Heaven help me.

I had regular customers who would bring their cloth bags of loot and pour it out on to the counter: “Knock yourself out,” they would say to me. Or words to that effect.

I had one regular customer who worked in a furniture store on the next street. He would mince excitedly over to my counter every day. He would take the money out of the bag, hand it over to me, with his banking book, and then begin his daily gossip. I’m pretty good at multi-tasking but to listen and respond to gossip while I’m having to count money, record it accurately, add up all the totals and try and work out what I’m really supposed to be doing, was beyond me.

He was a delightful character, however. Always nattily dressed with hair over-styled and under-stylish, he would shift his weight from foot to foot as he trilled his long, frilly fingers together and told me what was happening behind the scenes in his store and with his customers, or where he’d partied the night before. He’d always give me an opportunity to “give the goss” from my side, but I usually looked up at him with an exasperated blank stare and wished he’d just be quiet. Fortunately he never got that I felt that way, and, once his book had been tallied and rubber-stamped, he’d twirl round and mince out of the bank like he was walking on air.

I also had regular visits from the newspaper sellers and hawkers who plied their trade on the streets outside the bank. These customers would usually have their loot tied into an old handkerchief and stored in their sock, or at least that’s the impression I got. I called those interactions the “smelly deposits”. Say no more.

One of my most embarrassing moments happened while I worked at that counter. Occasionally – like about a hundred times a day – I would need to leave my telling booth to go and ask someone what I was supposed to do in a particular situation. Or to take money to the safe. Or to fetch something. Each time I left, I’d have to make sure the bank’s rubber stamps were out of reach of the customers, retrieve my keys for the booth door and excuse myself as I went to look for some direction.

On one occasion, I did two of the three requisite things and left my booth. As I closed the door, with its Yale lock, I realised I had not taken my keys. I had just locked myself out of my booth. And I had a stranger-customer at my counter, waiting to complete his transaction. I broke into a cold sweat. I completed my enquiry mission, and then wondered how on earth I could discreetly walk into the banking hall and climb over the counter back into my booth to continue working with my customer.

For one who was not exactly a natural at telling, and who struggled most days to balance her books or do her job even vaguely well, this was a whole new challenge.

I am not the world’s greatest lateral thinker, but occasionally flashes of brilliance do cross my mind. I thought of a less embarrassing way to get back into my booth that didn’t involve pole-vaulting from the banking hall. I grabbed a chair, put it outside the back of my telling booth door, climbed up on to it and leaned up and over the top of the door – on tippy toes and probably groaning as I stretched to reach the lock – to unlock my door. I walked nonchalantly back into my booth to let my customer know what I had just found out for him.

It was difficult to maintain my dignity when I knew that the entire, busy banking hall was watching me. I tried to ignore the muffled giggles and guffaws from customers, security guards and fellow tellers. I glanced fleetingly at my watch and calculated – without the use of an adding machine – that it was only half an hour till closing time and in my mind I defied anyone to breathe one single word to me about what had just happened.

I finished with my customer and prepared to hold my breath; another customer was taking something out of his sock as he walked towards my counter.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Cher delight

Have you ever had someone stand so close behind you that every time they move, their trapper-hat flap bangs on your head? And have you ever wrestled someone you’ve never met before? Or had bad thoughts about strangers that you wouldn’t dare write in your blog? I have. Last night.

My husband and I arranged to meet in Leicester Square for a certain film premiere event. We decided, because of the film that it was, that we would brave the cold, a bit of rain, the crowds, the stalkers, the hysteria and the mayhem. Perseverance and determination are formidable and necessary allies in a struggle such as we experienced last night.

We found a spot near the red carpet, took our places and tried – for the next hour or two – to stand firm. Hands, elbows, camera bags, hat flaps, bubble gum and phone cameras notwithstanding, we managed to keep breathing.

My sons played waterpolo at school and I was always amazed at the level of struggle that took place not only above water but below the surface. The key defender, who played in the “hole” near the opposition’s goal, would always jostle and do serious battle with his opposite number to gain domination of that spot. I felt like I was playing waterpolo on dry land last night. I did serious battle with a bubble-gum-chewing and bubble-blowing neighbour who insisted on elbowing me and pushing her way ahead of me. I tried to stand my ground and, at one stage, I heard her say to her friend, “I’m going to punch this lady.”

Thankfully she didn’t, nor I her. We all survived. And it was all for the sake of this:

For those who know me well, you will understand the value of this sight to my best friend in the whole world. The premiere was for the movie, “Burlesque”, starring Cher and Christina Aguilera and it starts in London on Friday.

Those were two hours of our lives we’ll clearly never get back, but – in hindsight – it was surely worth it.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Magic, mayhem and grass-heads at Christmas

Uncle Paul’s Christmas parties were always magical. I remember going to them when I was a child on holiday in Cape Town – way before the rindepest – and we took our boys to them when they were small.

It was an annual event that marked the beginning of Christmas festivities for us. We usually went early in December, and we always went with our dearest friends whose children were the same ages as ours. The weather was always good, the children always had fun and the enchantment of Christmas sparkled and shone under a royal blue, twinkling Cape Town sky.

Organised by local service clubs, Uncle Paul’s Christmas party is a not only a Cape Town institution but a significant fundraising event for local, deserving charities. With tickets almost as difficult to come by as Wimbledon Centre Court tickets, we’d have to book our berths early in the year, and wait in eager anticipation for the tickets to arrive, along with detailed instructions and our allocated date.

We’d arrive at the beautiful wine farm, show our tickets to the volunteers at the gate, and my husband would have to get out and hand over the carefully disguised swag from the boot of our car: a disposable container of food to contribute to the communal supper, a gift for an under-privileged child and a black bin-bag containing a gift (at a specified maximum price), labelled and chosen specially for each of our children. Our boys would keep their eyes focused ahead – they could barely contain their excitement.

We’d park our car, catch up with our friends, and join the queue for the tractor ride. Sitting on bales of hay in a trailer pulled behind a tractor, we would travel up to the bespoke castle at the top of the hill. Seating (for the adults) was arranged around a central, hay-filled area that faced the castle. We would find a place to sit and the children would jump into the hay, and begin their feast of hay-fights.

We were back-row parents. My friend and I would sit close to each other and catch up on the news and chat about everything we could think of. Our husbands would sit next to each other, share a few words here and there and laugh like drains. Such is the nature of our relationships. There was always plenty of laughter.

As soon as everyone had arrived at the castle, Noddy, Big Ears and Mr Plod would arrive and try and create order in the midst of the hayfights. This was always hilarious and over-the-top for the children, and they would try and bury the characters under the hay. The manic playtime would end with the welcome arrival of ice-creams for each child.

A marching band usually arrived after ice-creams, and the children would follow them as they marched this way and that. They would stop and play a few familiar tunes, and encourage participation from the children. By now, the light was starting to fade, and the communal supper would be passed around for all to share.

It was at this point that the Christmas carols would begin. And the laughter – from our quarter – became increasingly hysterical as our friend did his Elvis impersonation to each carol. He would sometimes liven up the songs with some hand-clapping or occasionally go reggae on us. It was hard to stay focused, but at least the children were sitting quietly in front of the band, singing as they should!

Usually the last carol to be sung was “Silent Night”, and it was at this point that the Christmas fairy would arrive. She was beautiful. She had a wand, and she would weave her magic as she lightly touched the tree and turned on the Christmas lights. The children would help with shouts of encouragement, and requisite oohs and aahs. As she was getting ready to light the star at the top of the tree, the children would be encouraged to be quiet as mice and listen; if they listened very carefully they could hear the sleigh bells in the distance. They came closer and closer, and the excitement and anticipation became almost too much to bear.

The fairy would light the star at the top of the tree and, as all little eyes were on her, Father Christmas would “land” on top of the castle. He would make his presence known, the children would look over at him and would screech and whoop and clap and jump around in excitement.

Father Christmas would come down from the top of the castle, sack on his back, and would dig into the sack to take out presents for each of the children. They would be called up in turn and, with shyness and wild excitement, the children would go up, look longingly into the eyes of this jolly man dressed in red, and receive their gifts. Paper was torn and tossed this way and that and the gifts were received with shrieks of joy.

Children would run around flashing their light sabres, wearing their neon head bands and bangles, playing with their action figures or rugby balls or toy drums (heaven help us) or toy cars and dolls. Sound effects rang through the air along with shrieks and laughter and vocal happiness.

One year, my friend had a great idea for gifts for all four of our little ones. She described them to me, and, encouraged by her enthusiasm, I agreed and went along with her. She bought the four items, wrapped them and surreptitiously passed two of them to me ahead of the Christmas party.

That was the year that all the children shrieked and laughed and showed off their gifts for all to see. Except our four children. Each of them took one look at their grass-head and came and sat quietly alongside us and watched longingly as the other children ran around and played with their cool toys. (The grass-head was a toy made out of an old stocking, filled with sand and grass seeds. The idea was that you put the grass-head on a jar filled with water, with its knotted bottom half dangling in the water. In time, the seeds would germinate and grass would begin to grow through the top of the stocking, creating a kind of long buzz cut: meet Mr Grass-head! It would be about six weeks before any “hair” appeared.)

My friend and I cast knowing looks at each other – what were we thinking? Our husbands looked at us less graciously, with expressions of WTF (why the funny-toy?), and our children sat there trying not to look ungrateful but so wishing they had cooler toys. What was Father Christmas thinking that year?

Fortunately “he” redeemed himself the next year with cool toys, and the children have long since forgiven us. It never detracted from the magic of Uncle Paul’s Christmas parties, but added a new dimension to our shared memories of those days.

Our four children still cannot figure out what we were thinking that year. I do wonder, myself, my dear dear friend: what were you we thinking?

Sunshine signing off for today!

A question of laughter

I have always been both teased and extolled by my family for being observant. Not to put too fine a point on it, my family members have said that when I’m around, they cannot get away with anything. I notice everything. Partly true; I notice everything that makes me laugh.

This morning I went to gym to do two classes: a Pilates class followed by a Swiss ball (exercise ball) class. We have a fabulous instructor and she puts on two kick-ass classes, providing excellent instruction along with a good workout.

The Pilates class had just finished, and preparations began for the Swiss ball class. Not everyone who does Pilates does the Swiss ball class, and vice versa. People leave and people arrive. Those of us who stayed, got our big blue balls, took them to our spots and sat and bounced on them as we waited for the class to begin. There were a good ten people sitting, bouncing on their balls when a new face appeared at the door. She half-opened the door, looked at all of us, looked at all of us again and then said, “Is this the Swiss ball class?”

Given that there is no other class offered at the entire gym at that time, that question struck me as, well, kind of obvious. “Duh,” was the kindest response that sprung silently to my mind. The more gracious among us said, “Yes.”

Some years ago, I travelled up to Harare, in Zimbabwe, from my home in Bulawayo, to spend a weekend with my sister. We had a fabulous weekend together, and bid a tearful, hugging farewell at Harare airport, from where I was to take the 40 minute flight home.

I checked in, got my boarding card and made my way on to the aircraft as soon as boarding opened. I took my window seat and settled down to read the in-flight magazine and reflect on my weekend fun. A guy came to sit next to me. He fiddled and fidgeted around a bit before settling down next to me. I was then aware of him having a bit of a long look at me and then he asked, “Are you going to Bulawayo?”

“No, I’ve asked the pilot to let me jump over Gweru,” was the answer I would have given, but my bemusement left me with, “Yes.” It also occurred to me that he could brush up on his pick-up lines.

My favourite stating-the-obvious moment happened when my husband and I were on our honeymoon. We stayed in a small cottage on the coast in northern KwaZulu Natal in South Africa. It was a small, simple, fishing cottage, owned by a friend’s father. The cottage had a small lawn in front of it, and in front of that was sand and sea for as far as the eye could see. A romantic hideaway indeed. We were entirely alone. (Apart from an unexpected and surprising visit from a Jehovah’s Witness on a Sunday morning!)

One day, we returned from a lovely walk on the beach and made ourselves a light lunch to enjoy outside with a good bottle of chilled, white wine. We languished on loungers and soaked in the warm, sea breeze and the joy of being newly-weds.

I leaned over to pour myself another drop of wine. I saw that my husband’s glass was also empty, so I looked adoringly into his eyes, and said, “Would you like some more wine?”

I have never let him forget his response: “Who, me?”

I guess my family members have a point when they say they can’t get away with anything when I’m around. But heck, it keeps the fun memories alive and isn’t it just great to laugh?

Sunshine signing off for today!

English as she is spoke

The thing about accents is that you only notice them when they differ from your own. At home in Cape Town I never notice my own accent but here in London, it’s another story all together. I’m well forrin and can’t hide it.

I heard the tail-end of a discussion on a TV talk show this morning. One of the guests said, “When I speak to someone with an accent, I start talking with that accent. I can’t help it.”  And everyone laughed. There is also the tendency to speak louder and more slowly when you speak to someone with an accent other than your own, or someone whose first language is not the same as yours.

So that was my prompt: I thought it was time to talk a little more forrin and share some more of my language idiosyncrasies with you. It’s funny, I never notice them at home and yet here, in London, they stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Is that a well-known expression?

Here goes with the Saffa-isms:

  1. Chips! This is an expression that has a number of uses. You can use it to ask someone to move out of your way (not really polite); you can use it to alert someone to a possible danger, such as “Chips! Open manhole ahead” or worse, “Chips, the teacher’s coming.”
  2. Long teeth. This is a direct translation from the Afrikaans. If you do something with long teeth it means you do it with extreme reluctance, dragging your feet, not wanting to do it at all.
  3. Swak (pronounced swuck). This is an Afrikaans word which literally translated means weak. Its use in English has a slightly stronger meaning and I’m not sure that I can do it justice: mean, horrible, nasty, unfair. For example, “My cell phone got stolen last night.” “Ah, no, bru. That’s so swak.”
  4. Whinge. This is in common use in England and in SA, and it means to complain, or to whine, but with an extra truckload of annoying-ness.
  5. Land with your bum in the butter. I’m not sure where this saying originates, but it means to be lucky, to have things go your way.
  6. When I was a child, if something irked my Cape Town-born and bred mom, she would say she could spit blood. That was quite a frightening thought for me. She would also say, as she rolled her eyes, “Oh, heavens to betsy!”
  7. Gedoente. Again, this is an Afrikaans word (don’t know how to explain its pronunciation) and it means (usually unnecessary) fuss. Or, in the words of a client that I worked with in a PR consultancy, it’s a major bloody marchpast.

And here are a few of the English expressions I notice here. I wasn’t familiar with them, but am now growing to love them:

  1. Anorak. This one fascinates me. The word, which means hooded raincoat or parka, has evolved into slang usage, and it means fan, fanatic, aficionado, knowledgeable one on a particular (unusual) topic, and perhaps in an obsessive way. So you could be a train anorak or a Star Trek anorak (Trekkie).
  2. In bits. I heard this expression on the news last night. The reporter was covering the story about the guy whose wife was murdered in South Africa last month, while they were on honeymoon. The taxi driver, convicted of the murder, implicated the husband by saying he’d been paid by him to murder his wife and make it look like a car-jacking. The reporter said the husband, at his home in England, was in bits. It means upset. It’s often associated with crying. In this context, the expression strikes me as the exact opposite of hyperbole.
  3. Winding me up. This means teasing me, having me on. The local radio station we listen to runs many competitions, including one where you have to identify three mystery voices. The jackpot grows with each wrong guess and it continues to grow until all three voices have been correctly identified. Earlier this year, a listener won £100,000 when he did just that. His reaction? “You’re joking! You’re winding me up! You must be winding me up!” I must say, that was my favourite kind of reaction!
  4. Lovely. This is not a new word to me, but I love its constant presence in conversation here. Lovely to meet you, lovely to hear from you, lovely to see you, lovely to chat to you, etc etc. When I had one of my first job interviews in London last year, the interviewer shook my hand at the end of the hour and said, “Lovely to meet you.” I walked on air as I made my way home. “She liked me, and I’m sure I’m going to get the job,” I thought. Not so much. I realised, when I got the no, that she would have said that to everyone. I was in bits. (Not really!)

This is an ongoing project, learning new expressions and discovering the forrin-ness here of the ones I use. If you have any suggestions or contributions, it would be lovely to hear them! And I do mean lovely.

Sunshine signing off for today!

My true colours

My hair is naturally blonde. My hairdresser works hard to make sure it stays that way. And while I do my fair share of dumb things, I don’t like to refer to them as blonde moments. On behalf of all my fair-haired brothers and sisters out there, welcome to my world of brunette moments.

I’ll start off with a London one. Some years back, my husband and I came over to the UK and Europe for a three month holiday. We had planned it to be longer and a working holiday, but it ended up being three months. Holiday? Yes. Working? Not so much.

Our time in England was spent with my husband’s best friend from school. He took us around and about, and we spent plenty of time in London, seeing shows and sight-seeing and enjoying the outrageously vibrant city that was nothing like we’d experienced before. Our friend would tell us to close our mouths, as our Africa-shaped jaws kept hanging open. We usually walked a few paces behind him, looking about and soaking everything in. We were two little nosy puppies, looking about and following him everywhere.

On one of our visits into London, the scene was as I describe above:  our friend striding ahead with local confidence, our following behind trying not to stare at everything and everyone. He turned around to say something to us but we didn’t catch what he said. When he turned to go down some stairs, we thought he had been letting us know we were going to the tube station. We followed him down the stairs and I couldn’t figure out why people coming up the stairs were looking at me strangely. Maybe we looked well forrin; that’s what I put it down to.

We got to the bottom of the stairs, and I thought it didn’t look like a typical tube station. As I took in the view ahead, I thought, “Oh wow, they even have little seats for you to sit on while you wait for the tube. Those are funny-looking, low, round, porcelain ….” and then all the blood drained from my head as I realised we had followed him to the gents’ loo. Those stairs led nowhere else. No wonder I’d had those looks. I ran up to the pavement in one leap and had to fan the life back into my lungs … I was so embarrassed I thought I was going to faint.

Another brunette moment happened some years ago BC (before children). Our phone rang one Saturday morning at 7am. That hour doesn’t exist before you have children. As is usually the case, my husband plays dead and then asks me who was on the phone. I’m sure plenty of you can relate. I jumped out of bed and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, can I speak to Sarah please?”

“Sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

“Is that not 88…….?”

“Yes. You have the right number but the wrong person.”

I am sure that caller still scratches his head, wondering what on earth I meant. Me too.

In one of my previous jobs, I had an allocated parking space in a central city parkade. I got to know my parking neighbours quite soon and we would always wave hello to each other. One morning, I was getting out of my car as my neighbour drove into his parking. We waved and smiled at each other, and he drove his car into the wall. Gently, but loudly.

My less-than-gracious thought was, “What a dork! I can only imagine how embarrassed he feels.”

And off I went to carry on with my day.

The very next morning, he was locking his car as I arrived and pulled into my parking space. We waved and smiled at each other and I drove my car into the wall. Gently, but loudly. Karma can be a b***h.

I’d love to hear about your differently-coloured-hair moments – we’re all friends here, remember?

Sunshine signing off for today.

I’m not quite as old as Corrie

Today marks the beginning of the 50th birthday week for a huge British institution. Its official birthday is December 9, but this whole week will see drama-filled episodes, celebratory quiz shows, live action from the set and a whole lot of partying. Happy birthday, Coronation Street!

It’s been so heart-warming to see the place that Corrie appears to hold in the nation that is gripped with frost and snow, spending cuts and student riots, spy allegations and leaked documents, a beleaguered coalition government and a failed bid to host the 2018 Football World Cup. In the midst of all of this doom and gloom, the soapie that is Coronation Street continues to intrigue with its familiar, topical storyline and cast of well-loved local actors.

I’ve not watched this soapie, but I know many people who do and they love it. The celebrity campaign running on host television channel, ITV, bears further testimony to its viewership of 12 million faithfuls: stars of stage and screen talk about how Corrie has been a familiar and well-loved part of British life over the last half-century.

I understand that Coronation Street has been among the most financially lucrative programmes on commercial television in the UK and, on 17 September 2010, it became the world’s longest-running TV soap opera currently in production. Cadbury’s provided advertising support from 1996 until 2007 and I remember some years ago seeing the chocolate model of the famous street at Cadbury World, the chocolate factory’s museum in Bourneville, Birmingham.

In my teenage years, living in Zimbabwe, we became hooked on the South African soapie, The Villagers. Our Sunday evenings revolved around the exploits of the funny, gossipy and delightful characters that populated the fictitious mining village of the title. I’m not too sure how long The Villagers ran, but its successor,“Isidingo”, premiered in July 1998. With daily episodes, it continues through to today, covering topical issues and fording controversy and scandal with entertaining relevance. My parents number among their huge fan base, and they can’t bear to miss an episode ever.

Some of my friends I worked with in Cape Town were hooked on American soapies, and their evenings just weren’t the same without All My Children, Days of Our Lives, Santa Barbara and a clear favourite, fondly known as The Bold. (The Bold and the Beautiful.) One of my friends told me that when she caught a mini-bus taxi home, if she had not been safely delivered to her door by 5.30, she would jump out of the taxi wherever it was at 5.30 and run into the nearest house to watch The Bold. Everyone in her neighbourhood felt the same way, so unexpected visitors were always welcome.

So here in London, I watch with a twinge of envy as the nation cheers on its well-loved soap opera and cast of cherished, household characters. Many happy returns, Corrie! I look forward to being your age.

Sunshine signing off for today!

 

Please Don’t Do THAT in Public

Yesterday I saw a woman at the bus stop. She was dressed like a model. Fluffy, faux fur hat. Designer coat. Boots up to her thighs. Sitting on the bench. And yes, folks, she was cutting her fingernails. All ten of them. With nail clippers.

I would love to have seen any CCTV footage of myself as I realised what she was doing. I would have seen a very thinly disguised expression of displeasure. Even with a frozen face, I managed to frown and let my lips frill. Surely her day wasn’t so busy that she couldn’t do that at home? Come on, lady.

Travelling on public transport in London, I have seen and heard things that no-one should have to see or hear in public. I’ll spare you the graphics of what I have heard. But I have seen someone cleaning out his ears on the bus. I have also seen a woman pluck her eyebrows on the bus. Seriously? That couldn’t wait? I know I’ve had long waits to get on the bus, but not that long that my eyebrows needed plucking by the time I boarded.

I have seen women doing their make-up on the tube, the whole business from foundation to eyeliner. I haven’t seen anyone wax their legs on their daily commute, but I’ve no doubt that’s a forthcoming attraction in the spring. Or maybe I just haven’t travelled the right tube lines for that.

I have watched people eat their breakfast, lunch, supper, snacks, elevenses, on the buses and tubes. Some people eat surreptitiously, sneaking morsels of food into their mouths and then darting their eyes around to see if anyone’s watching. I always seem to catch their eyes. Others stuff their faces like they’ve just finished a diet.

I once watched a young woman sitting opposite me on the tube lick her fingers – all ten of them – and smack her lips for a good five minutes after she’d finished eating whatever it was she’d just tucked into. After that little performance, she applied layer after layer of BRIGHT RED lipstick (caps to emphasise how red it was) on to her lips. She pouted and pouted as she checked in the mirror that her lips looked just right. She then put all her accoutrements back into her handbag, sat back and within two minutes, she had slumped sideways into an ugly, dribbling sleep.

Probably the most gross public display of toiletry (PDTs, as I call them) was a few years ago in Cape Town, when I was at a conference. As the afternoon session began, a woman came and sat next to me. She fidgeted and fidgeted. Now, I’m not a difficult person, but I hate it when people fidget next to me when I’m trying to stay awake concentrate on a graveyard shift at a conference. She dug in her handbag, she rustled sweet papers, she chewed sweets loudly and she sobbed and sighed as she dug further into her handbag for more hidden treasures. She chewed and fidgeted and chewed and fidgeted. I did my trademark shielding of my eyes … what the eye doesn’t see the heart can’t grieve over. However, it didn’t block out the sounds.

After an epic fiddling in her handbag (now you can tell how much I was concentrating on the conference subject matter), she sat still for a few minutes. And flossed her teeth. Seriously. She flossed her teeth. Don’t get me started here, but I don’t even like to be anywhere near the bathroom when my husband flosses his teeth – that’s just private. That’s a one-on-one affair. Him and the mirror. Nobody else’s business. Ever.

And this dear woman was flossing her teeth. At a conference, in a huge theatre, in Cape Town. Get a bathroom, already.

That PDT truly took the biscuit. I really don’t want to encounter anyone trying to top that. Thank you.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Cold Snow Reality

I’ve just walked in from a morning outing. I’m wearing three pairs of socks. I trudged through the snow and now, despite my layers and coverings, my fingers, toes and face have frozen. Good news is, nothing has fallen off. I don’t think. I can’t feel anything anymore.

Today’s temperatures, according to Google weather, range from a high of -1 degree C to a low of -2 degree C. Sorry to my friends across the pond, I don’t know how to translate those temperatures into F money. What I do know is that this is pretty darn chilly. Ask my face.

According to the Independent online, Britain has just experienced the coldest end to November in about twenty years. And the cold weather is set to continue. Reading that, I realise that since we have been in London, we have experienced a number of records. It makes me question our wisdom to time our London adventure thus, but I guess everything happens for a reason.

Here are the records, and they are pretty big:

  1. January 2010 was the coldest January since 1987, right across the UK. Overall it was the coldest winter since 1978/1979 with a mean temperature of 1.5 degrees C.
  2. In October, the British Chancellor announced the biggest UK spending cuts since World War II, affecting welfare, councils and police budgets. The reverberations and outworkings of the cuts will continue for some time.
  3. Current and future university students have launched a season of – often violent – protest at the coalition government’s plans to allow universities to charge up to £9,000 a year for tuition fees. Such demonstrations have caused chaos and disruption in Central London and other cities around the UK, as students voice their opposition to the plan for their future.
  4. The government has chosen to cut by a fifth the number of workers it allows in from non-European Union countries.
  5. With a surge in inflation towards the end of 2009, it was predicted that the cost of living in 2010 in the UK would be the highest since 1997.

My toes are starting to thaw out, and feeling has returned to my face. But the reality check sends fresh shivering chills down my spine. The cost of our London adventure.

Sunshine signing off for today.

My new header picture is a photo I took through our kitchen window this morning.