Category: my life

Clear as Mud

It’s snowing in London today. I went out in the snow for a while this morning, but for now I can watch the snow falling, from the warmth and dryness of our flat. It’s been a bleak late-autumn week for the UK, with many parts of the country experiencing thigh-deep snow and temperatures around -16 degrees C. Traffic chaos is inevitable.

We had traffic chaos of another kind around the time of my elder son’s birth. He was born in the summer in Zimbabwe, in the season of wonderful, dramatic, electric thunder storms. The heat becomes unbearable as the storm clouds build and, as you smell the rain coming, the huge drops fall loudly on the red soil, bringing relief and life to the earth.

My son and I had come home in the humid mid-day to a rousing welcome from the women in our neighbourhood. They all sang to us in their native Shona, ululating and thanking my husband and me for the beautiful baby boy and, as is their custom, assured me that the baby looked like my husband. That, apparently, was an important reassurance.

My parents had come to stay with us, to meet their new grandson. They were such a joy and a treasure, bringing just what we needed in unconditional love and grandparently doting.  I remember my Dad holding my baby son in his arms, turning the tiny-baby fingers over in his big hands, and saying to me, “You know, God never forgets anything.” My Mom made me feel like I was the best mother in the world, and that all my decisions were exactly right. She was by my side for the midnight feeds, cheering me on as only she can. Bless their cotton socks.

We also had a dear friend from the UK visiting us at that time. Another bonus.

The first Friday night we were home, we had invited my brother and his family to come and have supper with us and meet the new baby. A few hours ahead of their scheduled arrival, the heavens opened and the rain tumbled down in torrents. A knock on our back door alerted us to their arrival, but also to the news – from my completely sopping wet brother who looked like someone had just emptied a bowser of water over his head – that their car had got stuck in the mud on our driveway.

We rented a house on a smallholding, with a long, winding, dirt-road driveway up to our house. In the rain, the dirt became thick mud. My husband and his friend donned raincoats and went to help rescue the vehicle from the mud. My brother sat at the steering wheel while my husband and his friend tried to push the vehicle out of the mud. As the wheels spun, the vehicle went nowhere. About twenty minutes later, three men arrived at the back door – two were drenched in mud from head to toe, and one was still just sopping wet. The car was still stuck.

Sympathy was in short supply as hysterical laughter overtook us all. The three men went and scrubbed up.

Our friend was about to go out for the evening and he called a taxi to come and take him into town. My brother called a car breakdown service to come and tow his vehicle out of the mud. The tow-truck arrived about half an hour later, and it too got stuck in the mud. Our friend’s taxi seemed like it was never coming so he called to find out its whereabouts, only to be told it had turned back down our driveway as it couldn’t get past the tow-truck and the other vehicle.

At this stage, we were all crying with laughter. The tow-truck had to call in another tow-truck to rescue it from the driveway, and, given that it was a stormy night, tow-trucks were in short supply. We invited my brother and his family to stay the night, as we imagined tow-truck after tow-truck getting lodged in the mud along the entire length of our driveway.

Our friend ended up walking into town for his evening’s entertainment; the second tow-truck arrived at about midnight and managed to rescue both the other tow-truck and my brother’s car; and our new baby boy had a wonderful night’s sleep, oblivious to the chaos that unfolded around him and snug in the joyful arms of family.

So as the London snow continues to fall on the frozen dock in front of me, I smile and warm my hands on these precious memories.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Three Cheers to You Two

It’s not quite clear when they met. History holds that they met as children. According to their records, they met as young adults. He was in Cape Town on holiday from his banking job in Northern Rhodesia and she was working in the Reserve Bank.  It was love at first – or second – sight.

photo from crowhurstpark.co.uk

He swept her off her sporty feet and asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted gladly and agreed to travel with him wherever his work would take him. He was soon transferred to Hermanus, not far from Cape Town, and it was there that they started their married life.

Through years of travel through South Africa, Zimbabwe and Zambia (southern and northern Rhodesia of those days), they bore four offspring. Two boys followed by two girls. Months of separation from their children as they went to boarding school was the price they paid for the expat adventure.

When their children were small they embarked on an overseas adventure. They flew, with children ranging in age from six to 13, from Zambia to the United Kingdom. For three months they explored London, travelled on a boat up the Thames, spent six weeks in a motorised caravan travelling around England, Scotland and Wales, and then travelled by ship from Southampton to Cape Town. There they picked up a car for a friend and travelled up to Zambia. Brave, intrepid travellers they were, and their adventures and travels continued through their retirement in Cape Town.

Her gentle yet firm manner has always been balanced by his strong command of the family. Their lives centred around sport as they travelled here and there – she excelled in tennis before taking up golf, and in their retirement they enjoyed playing bowls together.  They now watch sport together and, I reckon, could give some commentators a run for their money.

A kind, loving and precious mom to her brood and granny to her grandchildren. A funny, loving and protecting dad and grampa whose wonderful storytelling will live on through the generations.

Kindred spirits. Best friends. Parents in a million.

Happy Anniversary, my precious Mom and Dad. I am so proud of your 57 years and counting. May God bless you always.

Sunshine signing off today.

Let it Snow

I’m feeling a little out of sorts today. I have an annoying cold. It’s stopped me from doing what I had planned to do today, and, with snow forecast for tonight and the rest of the weekend, it had better not stop me from honing my snowman-building skills.

Well, maybe honing is too strong a word.  And it presupposes a skill. Learning would perhaps fit the bill. Meet Snowman Ray.

Snowman Ray. The snowman with a kind heart.

Ok, so he was our first and only attempt last winter. I’m sure he has a very kind heart and a sweet singing voice. Neat handwriting too. And yes, he is a Manchester United fan.

We didn’t have a lot of snow to work with, as you can see, and, well, our hands got cold. The insults that flew through the Facebook world, when we posted photos of Snowman Ray for all to see, were quite voluminous. Poor Ray. I am hoping there won’t be too many less-than-kind-comments in the comments section here.

Before we arrived in London last year, I’d only ever seen snow once before. And that was atop the Alps, in the middle of summer in the mid-1980s. We had taken a cable-car ride up to Mount Titlis and, while the rest of the tourists languished in a heated coffee shop, enjoying hot chocolate and decadent pastries, my husband and I played in the snow. And kept running to thaw out our hands under the hand-driers in the bathroom.

So last December, when the snow fell in London (does it fall or float or both?), I was as excited as a puppy at meal time. The snow continued through January and February. I was working at that time, and I would get so excited when I noticed that snow was falling. I would jump around and say to my colleagues, “Look, look! It’s SNOWING!”

I usually got an indifferent look, an expression of “Whatever,” and was asked if I wanted to lie down until the hysteria passed. It’s a huge novelty for me, you know. Snow, that is. Not hysteria. Although hysteria is too.

So you’re hearing this first: I’m setting myself a challenge  of learning to build a decent-looking snowman. The kind that could feature on a greeting card, rather than be mistaken for a Cape Town taxi guard. Photographs of works in progress coming to a blog near you soon.

Bring on the snow.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Bob’s the Leftie

So there’s this Swedish guy, a Spaniard, two Polish guys and a pair of twins from the US … Not a lame joke, but the line-up for the ATP World Tour Tennis Finals at the O2 Arena last night. Another ticket in our red box.

Bryan twins, joined at the grip. Photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org

I’d been looking wistfully at the ads for the tennis, wishing I could go again this year. I treated myself to a ticket last year and, somehow, it felt like too much of a luxury this year. I got an email from a friend last week to say he’d been given two tickets for last night’s tennis, and asked if I wanted to go with him. Did I ever? Duh.

For those who may not know, the ATP World Tour Finals involve the top eight players from the year’s men’s tour. The final eight are only confirmed close to the start of this week, as the contenders are still playing in tournaments and racking up points. The tournament takes the form of a round robin, so you don’t know who you’re going to see until a day or two before.

We discovered on Sunday that last night we’d see Robin Soderling (Sweden) play David Ferrer (Spain) in the singles, and the Bryan twins (USA) take on the Polish pairing of Matkowski and Fyrstenberg.

It was a fabulous evening of tennis, which saw Matkowski and Fyrstenberg beat the reigning world doubles champions in three sets and Soderling take Ferrer in two.

I love the new doubles’ format for non-Grand Slam matches: when the score reaches deuce, they play a deciding point – receiver’s choice – rather than playing advantage, and deuce continuing forever. Also, the third set is played as a championship tiebreak, where the winners are the first to ten points, two points clear of their opponents. It makes the game much quicker and more exciting.

The Bryan twins were brilliant. The VT of their tennis journey revealed that Andre Agassi was their tennis idol; as children, they had posters of him all over their bedroom and they always wanted to be like him. They’ve been playing tennis since they were two, their father owns a tennis club and their mother is a pro tennis player.

“Bob’s the leftie, and Mike’s the rightie,” said the voice-over.

They bounced on to the court. They run and bounce and reach and jump and slam and smash and lob. Each point they win they’ll high five each other, or do their trademark chest bump. They seem to communicate without talking and it sure works: they have 66 titles, making them a hugely successful tennis pairing, if not the most successful ever.

When they ran up to the net, they seemed to form an impermeable wall of volleying, frustrating their Polish opponents no end. But when Matkowski found a gap, and sent a pacey forehand through to the baseline, that was the beginning of the end for the twins. Matkowski and Fyrstenberg played fantastic tennis and fought hard and well for their win.

Soderling and Ferrer then took to the court for their match. By this stage, a fair amount of fizzy drinks had been consumed around the Arena, and chirps were flying as fast as backhand volleys. “Go, Ferrer!” “David, you beauty!” “Vamos, Ferrer, vamos!” “Go, Soderling, go!” “Soderling, you can do it!”

My personal favourite was, “Love you, Robin!” to which the umpire said, “Thank you.” He had been encouraging the crowd to simmer down, but his timing was delightful and caused a wave of giggles through the Arena.

Soderling took care of Ferrer in two sets (7-5 7-5) and the two of them gave us a great game to watch, free of melodrama and full of perfect ground strokes. In Soderling’s post-match analysis, I was surprised to hear the interviewer ask him why, after a long line of placid Swedish tennis players, did Soderling have an almost Latin temperament.

Soderling was equally surprised and said, “Really?” It would have been funny had he then danced the tango and slapped the interviewer in the face. But he didn’t.

In between the matches, we saw a VT of the recruiting process for “ball kids”. 1,601 children applied (I’m sure it was meant to be 1,600 and then along came Wagner) and then they were whittled down to the final 30. One little boy they interviewed said, “I didn’t realise how badly I wanted to become a ball kid. I really really want to do this.” Everything is a competition, reality TV gets its claws into everything, and frankly, that made me feel sad.

As we left the O2 Arena, in the thrall of people walking towards the tube station, an announcement directed people to the tube station, bus stops and taxi rank. At that stage, one of a group of black-coated hooray henrys next to me said, “Taxis? In East London? Where would they even go from here?”

Snobbery, reality TV and a fabulous evening’s entertainment. All in a night’s work in London.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Sand and Soaps

Oh how our world has changed. Technology and the media have brought everything to our fingertips. Any time. Any place. Not like my student days when life ground to a halt at 8pm every Tuesday evening.

Yes, folks, that was when Dallas was screened on South African television. Cinemas did little business, restaurants were typically quiet on a Tuesday night, and the TV lounge in my university hall of residence was packed to overflowing with students eager to keep up to date with the goings-on in that Ewing family. Those were the days before VCRs, iPlayers, PVRs, TVOs, SkyPlus and the Internet. We watched on Tuesday nights or bust.

Although I cringe ever so slightly at the thought of it now, it was something we all did in those days. Unapologetically. It wasn’t particularly cool to watch Dallas. But it wasn’t uncool either. We just watched.

Over an Easter weekend at the beginning of my second year, a bunch of us decided to go on a camping trip.  We packed up the VW Golf and the VW Beetle and headed off along the Garden Route to a beautiful little seaside spot at the mouth of the Breede River, called Witsand.

We arrived at the campsite, set up the sound system and then pitched the tent to the sounds of Genesis’ Ripples. Two girls and four guys. We girls decided to unpack the VW Beetle and were watched by our male companions as we opened what we thought was the boot of the Beetle, only to find an engine staring us in the face. We weren’t to live that one down all weekend.

The weekend also turned out to be a hugely significant one for me, as it marked the start of a lifelong relationship with my best friend in the whole world. We laugh today when we think how coy we were to cross the line from best friends to being together, and how unsure we were of the cues.

My now husband looked up at the sky one evening and said to me, “It’s such a beautiful evening. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

I thought it was such a fabulous idea, I rallied everyone together and we all went and enjoyed the moonlit walk. I didn’t notice the muttering disappointment of my dear friend …

The weekend was punctuated with riotous laughter and a whole bunch of memories that we carry around with us today. If we six were to be in a room together right now, we would recount the events of that weekend as if they happened yesterday.

As the weekend progressed, we all realised we would be away from TV and Tuesday’s screening of Dallas. We happened to walk past the campsite manager’s house one evening, and saw that he had a television. No flies on us, we knocked on his door and asked if we could all come and watch Dallas with them on Tuesday night. Slightly taken aback, he agreed. We all high-fived and felt so chuffed that we wouldn’t miss our programme. Heck, we were students.

At about 7.45pm on Tuesday evening, we went to the campsite manager’s house, knocked on the door and trooped into his small and humble abode. His wife, whose first language was not English, greeted us shyly and showed us where we could sit. We overflowed from their meagre supply of furniture, and most of us sat on the floor. Cool.

The eight of us sat, rapt, through the hour-long episode. At the end of the programme, our host offered us coffee. The polite thing would have been for us to decline graciously, to thank our hosts and to beat a gentle retreat from their home. But nooooo, we were students and we jumped at the offer.  Our hostess sat shyly in her seat as her husband went to the kitchen to make a truckload of coffee.

We commented on the photos pasted on the walls. They were of their many sons and she told us, in broken and stilted English, where her sons were and what they were doing. Not only did language separate us, but she was a whole generation older than we were and we soon ran out of conversation.

After an awkward silence, she ventured this to us: “I’ve read somewhere, I fink it’s in the Huisgenoot, that JR, in his own home, is really quite a nice man.”

[Huisgenoot, the House Companion, is a weekly Afrikaans-language general interest/gossip magazine.]

We all nodded in agreement, gulped down our coffee, and, as soon as our cups were cold, politely thanked them and excused ourselves. How kind and generous of them to share their home, their coffee, Dallas and their insights with us. But really – didn’t we just have a huge nerve to do that? I still feel my cheeks burn ever so slightly when I think of that evening …

Sunshine signing off for today.

Finding David Brent

I consider myself something of a serial eavesdropper. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that I do seriously tune into funny things that people say in restaurants, on the bus, on the tube, walking along the street. Doing just that in Essex on Saturday, I felt inspired to begin a mini-project within my blog: Finding David Brent.

David Brent - photo from http://www.dailymail.co.uk

You might have gathered that I am something of a fan of Ricky Gervais. Our family’s first taste of his humour was when we stumbled upon an episode of The Office on TV one Sunday evening. It was the episode where a motivational speaker had been hired to run a workshop with the Office staff. Gervais’ character, David Brent, was supremely threatened by this and did all he could to interject, take over or add in his take on what the speaker was talking about. In the end, David Brent took out his guitar and played a song he’d written. It was a hilarious episode, our first encounter with Gervais and the “mockumentary” style and we were hooked on both.

So following on from the David Brent dance-alike in my Zumba class of a few weeks ago (The Office Moves), we came across another dead ringer over the weekend. We went shopping in Essex on Saturday, and stopped for lunch in a little coffee shop in the mall. David Brent and his wife came in, and stormed out when the table they had been eyeing was taken by a young mum and her two small children. He audibly sighed, “That was our table,” before picking up his skirts and flouncing out of the coffee shop with his wife, giving the young mum a look that could kill.

About ten minutes later, the table next to ours became free. In walked DB and his wife (not sure where they’d been lurking – perhaps just outside the door), and they sat themselves down as soon as they could, making sure no-one could beat them to the spot. He announced to his wife, for all to hear (and I’m guessing he’d have looked into the camera, David Brent-style, had there been one):

“Right, love, whatever you want, buy. Cheapest.”

And that is something that only David Brent would say.

Sunshine signing off for today.

The Princess and Me

The media in the UK is in a bit of a froth and a frenzy over the Royal Engagement. In the midst of coalition woes, strikes, budget cuts, FIFA-fixing, cold weather, floods, not to mention Wagner, it helps the nation to have something positive to look forward to.

The merchandisers have been going overboard with enough commemorative Will ‘n Kate crockery to sink a ship. The first item I saw, which made me laugh, was a mug with two handles. I wondered if that was in honour of the father of the groom-to-be who has, rather unkindly, been described as resembling a VW with the doors open.

Image from thejjb.com

Typically, British bookmakers have been bursting with speculation about where and when the wedding will take place, who will design the wedding dress, what title the couple will take on after the wedding, who will be the best man, who will be the maid of honour, how many viewers will tune into BBC to watch the wedding live, what colour the wedding dress will be and – my personal favourite – the colour of the Queen’s hat.

All of which reminds me of Diana and me. Princess Diana was born one week before me. And honestly, if I had a pound for every time someone told me that I looked like her, I would be basking on my yacht in the tropics somewhere, sipping on an expensive, chilled cocktail, waiting for someone to peel me a grape, and enjoying the company of my gorgeous husband who, thankfully, looks nothing like Charles.

I can’t remember when it began. I didn’t do like Julie Walters’ client in Educating Rita and take a magazine photo of Diana with me to the hairdresser and say, “I want to look like that.” I guess I just do look like that. A bit. Or so some people think.

I think the first time was when I visited my new boyfriend’s family, who grew up to become my parents-in-law. They had a delightful, also Scottish, neighbour who was often, as my granny would say, full of hops. The more she tippled, the more slurringly talkative and tearfully sentimental she became. In a particularly emotional moment she wiped a tear from her eye as she looked at me and said, “Och, you’re affy like Leddy Di.”

From that moment on, I became Leddy Di. Even after the leddy became Princess. It was quite sad, really, that sometimes in her blurred reality, I became Diana. She gave me a beautiful, expensive bottle of perfume and said, “This is fer Leddy Di.” I thanked her and then told her to curtsy and in future not to speak to me unless spoken to. (Just jokes.)

She and her husband came to our wedding, and I’m sure she thought she was coming to a royal occasion, although it must have been a little confusing that this was happening in Bulawayo.

Another time, when my older son was a baby, we went out for Sunday lunch at our favourite Italian restaurant in Harare. When we’d finished our meal, my husband went to settle the bill and I went outside, our six-month old son in my arms, to wait in the sun for him. I happened to stand next to a giggly bunch of female senior citizens who had emerged from the same restaurant where they had enjoyed a few too many fizzy drinks with their lunch.

One dear lady approached me and asked me about my cute little baby. She choonched his cheeks, told me he was gorgeous and wanted to know how old he was. You know, the usual. As I was answering her questions, one of her friends approached me from the other side and said to her friends, “You know, she looks just like Princess Diana!”

She then took my face in her hands and turned my face to show her friends, “Don’t you think so?” she said. I kid you not.

At which point the baby-ogler asked me another question. So I turned my head to answer her, and as I began to speak, my face was again showcased in the other direction in the middle of two ageing palms. The ridiculous charade continued for a short while, my face going this way and that.

I guess I could have shouted, “LEAVE ME ALONE, THIS IS MY FREAKING FACE ALREADY!” but I couldn’t find those words, and, to be honest, it was really really funny. My husband came outside and rescued me from the face-grabbing aunties a few minutes later, and we both laughed as I recounted what had just happened.

A few years ago, I was shopping in a supermarket in Rondebosch in Cape Town. I noticed the cashier staring at me before I got to her to make my purchases. As I approached, she said to me,

“You know what? You look JUST like Prince Di-ANNE!”

I smiled coyly, as one does when you’ve been told that, I don’t know, a MILLION times.

The cashier was quite overwhelmed. She called to her colleague at the next till.

“Hey, Bronwen! Look who I’m serving. Prince Di-ANNE!”

Her friend looked across at me and said, “Yoh,” as one does, in Cape Town.

My cashier then said to me, “Are you related?”

To which I said, “No.” (I had wanted to say, “To Bronwen?” but I figured the sarcasm would be lost.)

She said, “Pity, hey? They got lots of money.”

People tell me almost conspiratorially that they think I look like Princess Di. And like they are the only ones who have ever thought that. It’s quite difficult to respond graciously, and to retain an element of fresh surprise when I’m thinking “If I had a pound…”

So Kate – all the best for your royal future in the spotlight. I tell you, it’s tough. And if I can give you some advice, steer clear of slurring aunties at Italian restaurants – they sure squeeze your cheeks.

Sunshine signing off for today.

With ekthtra cheethe, to go. And make it thnappy

So there I was earlier this week, walking alongside the large dock in our neighbourhood when I heard a strange sound. A thwap! And then another thwap! I looked up and realised it was the sound of two large slices of white bread belly flopping on to the water.

Two people walking ahead of me had clearly gauged the size of the water life in the dock, and thought they were ready to handle bread in slices. The flying bread drew the attention of ducks, birds and swans alike and a splash-filled scramble ensued.

As I looked closer, I saw that most of the chubby little quackers were not actually swimming. They were sitting in speed boats, causing waves and trying to beat each other to the spoils. The aqua population of our dock has become so overweight they can no longer swim.

I wondered if the ducks had also grown fussy now. After feasting on chips ( see my earlier post Stop quacking and eat your chips) maybe they’d prefer something like a toasted sandwich? Burrito, perhaps?

It made me think of the time a few years ago when we stopped at our local cafe to buy a few things on the way home. A scruffy homeless guy, reeking of cheap alcohol, stumbled over to me and asked me for some money. I told him I was going into the cafe and would buy him something to eat. I came out and gave him a bag of bread rolls.

He took the bag, grabbed a roll and tore off a hunk of a bite. He looked deeply disappointed. I asked him if something was wrong, and he said, “Why didn’t you buy me a pie?”

I climbed into the car and said to my family, “That guy was rude.”

One of my sons said, “Yes, he was, mommy. He was speaking with his mouth full.”

So back to my neighbourhood and my walk. My thinking wasn’t far off. I turned the corner at the edge of the dock and saw a pizza delivery girl at a duck’s nest. This duck family had given up on the boring diet of bread and chips. In exchange for a pile of pizza boxes, Mr Duck gave the delivery girl a few notes and said, “Keep the change, thweetheart. Buy yourthelf thomething pretty.”

What next, London? What next?

Sunshine shaking her head and signing off for today!

Why I’m grateful for today

There are so many factors that shape who I am. And who I am constantly becoming. Life, my family, relationships, circumstances, choices, my faith, my personality, decisions, events. Today marks the anniversary of a pivotal event in my life.

November 12 fell on a Friday in 1999. It was a normal working day in Cape Town for me. I was the PR manager for an NGO that trained unemployed people to start their own small businesses. My work took me all over the Peninsula to visit training centres and fledgling enterprises. Trainees learnt business skills to run spaza shops (small retail businesses from their homes), or skills such as sewing, leatherwork, knitting or butchery, to run a business from home. It was rewarding work, and I loved my job.

On this Friday, I had an appointment to go and meet up with a new entrepreneur in his home in Guguletu, to hear about his new business. I had been given directions to get there, although road names didn’t feature too strongly: “Turn left at the other school and go down and when you get to that station turn right.” I had a good idea where I needed to go, as I was familiar with the area, and I double-checked with the new entrepreneur’s trainer where I needed to go, and off I went.

I took the main route off the highway, Duinefontein Road, that heads through Manenburg and on towards Guguletu. Manenburg is notorious in the Western Cape for gang activity, and I always drove through the area with due vigilance and caution. As I headed towards Guguletu I couldn’t find any of the landmarks, and it was no longer clear to me where I needed to go. After going backwards and forwards a few times, and nearly running out of road, I chose not to venture into the unknown. I decided to go back to the office to get better directions and reschedule my meeting.

I drove back along Duinefontein Road. Cape Town had recently been hit by a freak tornado, Manenburg being the area most acutely affected by its brief appearance. Many houses had been destroyed, three people had been killed and a number had been left homeless. There were a few makeshift, tented camps where people lived until their homes were rebuilt. One such camp was on the grounds of a school that I drove past.

I looked at the brown tents and felt sad that people had lost their homes. I was also aware that there were hundreds of school children pouring out of the school and across the road. I wondered why they were finishing so early (it was mid-morning), I was concerned that many were crossing the road without checking what traffic was coming and going. It was in the middle of those thoughts that I heard a gunshot. And then a sound I can’t describe – perhaps a thwang – as a bullet hit my windscreen and I was showered with shavings of glass.

The bullet ricocheted off my windscreen without penetrating it. The trademark spiderweb left by the bullet on my windscreen was in line with my head. I thought, “I’ve been shot at. And God’s protected me. Perhaps I should go to the police station.”

I didn’t look to see where the shot had come from, I didn’t stop or slow down or speed up, I just carried on driving and thinking logically what I needed to do next. I knew the police station was just down the road and to the right. As I approached the intersection, I felt it would be unsafe to turn down that road. So I continued on to Guguletu to go to the police station there.

All the while, I felt calm and just kept thinking, “God’s protected me. And I need to report this.”

I turned down the road to go to Guguletu police station, and when I was about to park my car, it suddenly hit me, “I’VE BEEN SHOT AT AND I’M TERRIFIED AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO OR WHO TO SPEAK TO. AND I’M SO SCARED.” I began to shake and sob and my face and cheeks wobbled beyond control.

I turned my car around, and decided to drive back to my office. By now, my legs were shaking too and I don’t know how I managed to drive, or see through the tears.

I still felt the need to report this to the police, so I went to Mowbray police station, near my office. I cried all over the front desk, I could hardly get the words out, and the kind and patient officer took my statement and gave me a case number. I asked her if she wanted to see my car, and she said no. I felt sad for the state of Cape Town, and that more attention would have been paid to this in a more peaceful world.

I drove quietly back to my office, my colleagues and friends were astounded and open-mouthed and didn’t really know what to say. Then hugs and words of comfort abounded.

As an amusing aside, one of my colleagues told me to drink sugar water. “It’s good for the shock. My mother’s sister-in-law’s aunty’s nephew took sugar water after a cupboard fell on him, and he’s never had nightmares.”

I was able to chuckle at that, as I called my husband to tell him what had happened. I had stopped crying, but started again when I spoke to him. He came to me right away. And then I went and fetched my boys and went home. My boys were so shocked, but were just glad I was fine. Thank the Lord children don’t agonise over what if – I was there and I was fine. And that’s all that mattered.

It was a strange and scary and surreal experience telling people about what had happened, dealing with my own reaction but wanting to protect everyone else from feeling sad. Or anxious.

My husband, as a trained trauma counsellor, insisted on debriefing me that evening. We sat, cross-legged and facing each other on our bed, as he talked me through what had happened and asked me strategic questions about how I’d felt and what I’d thought. I know, without doubt, that that session was just exactly right. I’ve never had flashbacks, or nightmares, and I honestly haven’t relived that moment with anything but gratitude. My body had its own reaction six months later, when I experienced a series of panic attacks, but they were short-lived and I guess my body needed to vent.

Oh, and I didn’t ever do that interview. I just couldn’t.

In the weekend papers the next day, we read of an off-duty policewoman who was shot at – and injured – in her car in the vicinity of my event. It was attributed to a gang initiation ritual. Perhaps that was the purpose of the bullet that hit my car. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know if I was caught in cross-fire or if the bullet was meant for me. All I do know, and am forever grateful for, is that the bullet didn’t have my name on it.

Sunshine signing off, with gratitude for today.

The Office moves

So yesterday evening I went to my wonderful Zumba class at the gym. I had my blinkers firmly in place, because I thought, “I-can’t-blog-about-this-class-again-I-can’t-blog-about-this-class-again.” And then it happened.

Who would have guessed that there would be someone in my Zumba class who had the moves of The Office’s David Brent? More than this, I will not say. Big Blogger’s watching me.

Sunshine signing off for today!