It's astounding, time is fleeting

Summer is finally coming around down here in the south. The beginning of the month was shockingly damp and brisk, a bracing tease of winter-like weather in what's meant to be a balmy, heady, blossomy time of year. Although its climate is quite different from Cape Town, Johannesburg also experienced a little cold/wet spell this November, leading my brother-in-law, Alex, to quip, "It's an Indian winter." But now, finally, as we move into the last month of frisky, aromatic spring, the warmth and bird-chirp have returned, and everywhere there are sandals and sunglasses and lambs and butterflies and little men with feathers in their caps skipping about strumming lutes. It's all just lovely. Cape Town's a grand place to be and it's a grand time to be here.

That said, there are problems, of course. And yet, because this blog is not meant to be a forum for the discussion of serious matters and certainly does not aim to improve the conditions of anyone's life but my own, I find myself mostly unwilling to enumerate them. I will say, though, that crime is a very serious issue in South Africa and one does need to be aware of it. Theft, in particular, from pickpocketing to car jacking to burglary, is pretty common in Cape Town. Our own belongings (various cell phones, laptops, a camera, a wonderful metal coat hook embossed with Beatles lyrics that was hand-forged as a wedding gift by my dear best friend Willis (no relation to Bruce)) have been "redistributed" in various ways on no less than four occasions since moving here just over two years ago. I cannot think of a single friend here who has not been targeted by thieves at one time or another, in one way or another.

Anyway, to get back to my reason for even bringing all this up, Stumpy and I joined our local Neighborhood Watch last year in an effort to be people who don't just sit around and complain about shit, but people who go out and DO something about shit. (Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy sitting around and complaining - probably around one to five times per week on average - but there are other things I'd rather bitch about: typos in newspapers, ridiculously inappropriate music in the grocery store (Sade's "No Ordinary Love" while I decide between English and Dijon mustard?), the fact that "Crash" won a Best Picture Oscar.) I spent nearly a year as its treasurer, a post for which I am most ill-suited, before being tenderly, diplomatically reassigned to the nascent "Social Portfolio" - a small and highly unsecretive brace of citizens who conceptualize and carry out great fund-raising mixers for the community. We meet at an Italian restaurant and talk boerwors rolls, candy floss, porta-potties, booze.

The last (and first) fete we engendered was a Halloween thing. Although the beloved holiday of spooks, candy, and autumnal revelry is not traditional in SA (it occurs, after all, in spring here. See above.), some South Africans are getting into it a bit. (Other, less-evolved specimens moan bitterly about the "Americanization" of the globe. I say boo to anyone who doesn't, at least once a year, want to dress up like a pestilent ghoul and dish out sweets to the neighbors. It's hard to believe that societies can even function without that sort of thing.) Well, our Neighborhood Watch party in the park worked "a treat" for us, as it were, in that lots of people came and their kids got all sugared up and we raised a heap of those elusive "funds" that groups like ours are always scrambling after. It was a terrific success all around. And, it was fun. A bit raucous, a bit rough. As an American, I was particularly impressed that we completely ignored all rules and regulations governing the sale of food and liquor, and no one complained or even questioned any of it. Viva!

The Night Old Dixie Drove Me Down

Well. Rutambuka and I are back safe on the southeast side of the Atlantic again after two whole months away. For some reason, now that I'm back, it feels like I never left at all. And yet, the St. John portion of the trip seems like it took place over a year ago. Strange how the mind handles memories, stretching and bending and folding them at will. (Yet, you cannot fold a single memory (no matter how big) eight times or more - it's just not possible. Try it and see.)

A rundown of the whole air travel with toddler experience:

Going over, as many have heard, Rutam doused me in extra-grande double-upchuck au lait ten minutes into our thirteen hour flight from Johannesburg to Atlanta. Totally soaked, scalp to sole. I'd brought no spare pants or shoes for myself and the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign was still fiercely illuminated when it happened. I wanted to move, to bolt, to undo the mess I was wearing, but also didn't want to upset anyone. We hadn't even reached cruising altitude and there I was - a stinking caricature of motherhood misery, soggy as a sponge and sour-smelling as... somebody covered in baby puke. Rutam was also pretty drenched, poor thing. It was all pretty wretched. And sad. I felt very exposed and feared the wrath of my fellow passengers. There were torches in my thoughts, and pitchforks...

Eventually, a kindly air hostess came along and futilely blotted us with several outsized wads of paper towels. She wore southwest Native American style jewelry (silver feathers and turquoise) and didn't pussy-foot around the fact that I was a total mess. She gave me permission to go to the bathroom (before the seat belt light was turned off! The perks!), where I changed Rutam's clothes before performing my own particularly feeble version of "Freshening Up in an Airplane Lavatory". I returned to my seat weary and still reeking, and spent the next nine or so hours losing the sensation in various parts of my anatomy as I struggled to hold onto and support Rutam through the thrash-yoga of her sleep, the leggy choreography of her dreaming.

If the trip over was a tale of horror, then the trip back was one of inconvenience. Coming back, at least, I knew what to expect. I knew, for instance, not to feed the babe greasy french fries for dinner before the big flight. I knew, also, that the whole affair (D'burg to NY to Atlanta to Johannesburg to Cape Town) was fraught with nightmarish potential. I was ready for anything and thank goodness for that. Turns out, we sat on the runway at Laguardia for well over two hours before finally, amazingly, gloriously taking to the sky. And Rutam was excellent throughout all of it. She really was. She looked at her books (over and over and over again, bless her), she played with her toys, she ate her raisins. Unfortunately, though, we landed in Atlanta almost three hours late and missed our eight pm flight to Jo'burg. There wasn't another one out until the same time the next day. We'd have to stay a night and a day in "Hotlanta". And neither of us was feeling very "hot".

Ah, Atlanta. How will I remember her? Waiting bleary-eyed for the hotel shuttle bus, eleven pm rain halos around the street lamps. Pushing Rutam back and forth, back and forth in her stroller while our fellow denizens of Somewhereotherthanatlanta made their own gestures of stranded caginess all around us on the sidewalk. Charles, the young and irrepressible, somewhat fey Sleep Inn desk clerk. (He was amazingly cheerful for someone who works the night shift in a dull hotel that people only stay in when something's gone wrong; he should be promoted.) Ordering a pizza and eating the whole thing (Rutam had one slice), watching a bit of Letterman.

The next day - hours to kill. Looked in the phone book. Swear I saw a coupon for 25% off bail bonds. (Does this seem wrong?) Watched the Emmy awards on cable TV and realized how boring they are if you only ever watch Entourage and Deadwood. A walk outside: Highway 85, self-storage facilities, pawn shops, hair braiders. Not even a really good gas station. Feeling a bit scared. Creepy. Retreat to Sleep Inn. Hole up until it's time to go back to the airport.

In the airport, we find our gate in the international terminal. It's pretty swanky, actually, and there's a lady playing the piano in the food court like it's some kind of fancy hotel lounge. There are a few servicemen around and she thanks them as they walk past. I get a little choked up about that, but I manage to swallow it. Sometimes the world is just too loaded and layered to even think about. Rutam and I eat our last meal in the US and then I chase her around for a while. She is thrilled to be able to run, dashing and tripping through those great, bustling hallways.

Eventually, we board the stifling plane, but there's no throwing up this time. We are seated between a preacher and a doctor, and they make for very friendly, accommodating neighbors. Rutam sleeps about eleven of the fifteen hours in the flight and all goes smoothly. (I even get to watch two movies - "Sunshine Cleaning" and "Changeling".)

Eventually, we get back to Cape Town. Finally, we see Stumpy.

At last, we are back.

Back in the New York Groove

(I've been in the 'Burg since August 21st. Before that, I was in St. John from July 14th.)

Today I went for another hike/walk in the woods at Christman's Sanctuary, near my mother's house. Usually, Chui and I go by ourselves, but today my mom and her next door neighbor came along too. The weather was summery going in - sunny, warm, and strangely humid for this time of year. It's amazing how much plant matter there is here, how big and lush it all is, even so far into September. Apparently, NY had an incredibly rainy summer until mid-August or so, and you can see it in all the mutant flora. Just up the road from here, there are eight foot tall stalks of wild rice growing. Everywhere, the flowers are giants, their blossoms like babies' heads, their stems like volleyball players. It's all verdant and sublime, of course. And more than a little bit sinister: in one ear, Mary Oliver, Wordsworth; in the other, Al Gore, Nostradamus...

Today, the woods were full of bright orange salamanders. At first I didn't see any - just the dull mud of the path edged with mottled old leaves. And then, suddenly, there one was - orange as a road cone and tiny, exquisite. Glorious, amazing! I felt like Darwin in the Galapagos. My mom said to look out for more, and then there they were: I saw two more, then five, ten, whole bunches of them huddled under mushrooms like families under beach umbrellas. They behave far less nervously than the geckos in St. John, and they don't do pushups. They seem like more laid-back creatures altogether, and I wonder why that is.

There were loads of mushrooms as well - fleshy, multiform. Some were bright as the salamanders; others looked like beautiful wood that'd been carved, sanded, and stained; a few resembled human knees. (An aside: Lately, when I see a picture of a glamorous movie star in a short dress, I can't help but think that knees are a great leveler. No one has attractive knees - they're all kind of unfortunate-looking, and some are worse than others.) We found one that looked very oceanic - exactly like pipe organ coral, actually. It is called (I just looked this up) "coral mushroom". Genius. Ah, the humble detritivore.

All in all, it's been very pleasant being home with Chu. There is a special feeling in bringing one's offspring to one's childhood home for the first time, a certain rekindling of the memory, a re-widening of the eyes. Being with the parents is also nice. My mom can't stop talking about the purple asters (wildflowers) growing along the road and my dad can't stop taking photos of Chui. It stirs the soul a bit. The leaving will be sad, but I'm happy to be going back to Cape Town, where it will nearly be spring.

I foresee more boring plant-oriented posts.

A hundred visions and revisions...

I am not a complete blog-slacker, I'll have you know. I didn't mean to be one of those people that gets their blog URL and just sits on it. Maybe writes something on October 7th, 1995 and doesn't wake up again, blog-wise, until June 24th, 2009, after the world has reinvented itself a billion times over, and Seinfeld's been taken off the air, and the Knickerbocker Arena has become the Pepsi Arena has become the Times Union Center. (Can I just insert a "WTF?!" here? On one hand I've got a sincere and irrational loyalty to certain brands: Coca-cola, Dial soap, Era laundry detergent, Neutrogena face cream. (In South Africa, I love Salticrax, Just Juice, and Windhoek Lager.) On the other, I completely distrust and oppose the corporate ambition that would recast the whole universe eponymously, if given any fraction of a chance. Why do it? So that you can shackle your brand to every true and delicious human memory that happens along? It's bad enough that you hold a monopoly over whatever products are sold inside the venue; you don't have to then erect a 50 foot tall, blazing sign on the outside of the building that constantly reminds everyone within a seven mile radius with at least one serviceable eye that we no longer live in the era of steam trains and letter openers. Those days are gone - the Dodgers aren't in Brooklyn anymore. Now, we're living in a condo made of Happy Meal boxes in Las Vegas with Mayor McCheese and Grimace and they're on a 60 year winning streak and things are creepier than ever. In "Infinite Jest", David Foster Wallace imagines an age when even the years are branded. There's the Year of Glad, the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment, etc. An amusing idea, though terrifying.) Anyway - I didn't mean to be another Rip VW in the blogosphere. It's just that I've been busy.

Turns out, I'll be spending the winter (or is it the summer? Well... both, if you consider the hemisphere issue...) in the Caribbean with the Minister of Foreign Affairs. There's a silly amount of admin involved in getting one average- and one tiny-sized human overseas. Admin that is really too boring to get into. However, I will say that on our second visit to the US Consulate out in Tokai (Tokai is a suburb of Cape Town - a beautiful 20 minute drive out the M3), the dude at the security desk asked me to taste the contents of Rutam's bottle to make sure I wasn't bringing in some horrible explosive cunningly disguised in a Nuk bottle, with real-live baby in tow to make the whole murderous charade more believable. I was a bit amused by the request, remembering, of course, the tale of one modern traveling mother who was made to imbibe her own breast milk at a security checkpoint at JFK. Apparently, the lady found the incident both "embarrassing and disgusting" and hired a couple of lawyers to do something tedious and expensive about it. Anyway, I was happy for a pull off Rutam's rooibos, as it was probably the single most healthy substance I'd had in my system in days. If it'd been breastmilk, I'd've been equally willing, and interested to see what it tasted like. Is this disgusting? A tad disquieting? Well, who hasn't been curious about the flavor of their own earwax or sniffed with genuine interest at the contents of their own belly button? Breast milk is oddly controversial stuff. Some people are precious about it, others are clinical. Some don't bother with it at all. Some store it up in their freezers because they're busy. Whatever. Most of us have one form of it sitting in our fridges, next to the OJ and the ketchup and last night's moo goo gai pan. Except that ours is in a plastic bottle and it's cold and it's sterile and it comes from an entirely other mammal.

I certainly did not embark on this blogging adventure to get all weird and preachy about things. So, I'm going to make a sincere effort to get off this irritating high horse because I'm pissing my own self off at the moment. I'll talk you through my day, instead.

Woke up very late last night (this morning) to the angry cries of Rutambuka, who was standing up in her crib and ranting like a Black Panther at a race rally, circa 1968. Brought her into my room and held her close while I swayed deliriously to and fro, mumbling incoherently (though not unmusically). Eventually, we laid down and she found her way back to the land of Nod, with me very close on her heels. Woke again when the sunlight was on the west wall of the room. Meaning, about eightish.

Got up, sorted laundry, fried a couple of eggs. Chu played on the floor while I eagerly awaited the arrival of Dora, who comes on Fridays and hurriedly turns mountains into molehills. Eventually, she showed and my day began to take shape: I would finish feeding Rutam (which takes, on average, an hour and a half per meal - something must be done about this), jump in the shower, get dressed, and drive downtown to the Delta Airline offices in order to book the babe for the flights to Shangri-La. (Delta has this weird and wonderful clause in their booking policy whereby you have to physically GO into the local office and chat to someone in person for them to list your own child (who you'll be holding in your lap) as a passenger. For some terrifically inconvenient reason they cannot do this over the phone.) The Delta Airline offices are on the seventeenth floor of the Southern Life Building on Riebeeck Street. A bit obscure of an address for little old me, whose main connection to downtown sort of begins and ends at Long Street. But still, Cape Town isn't exactly Cairo or Boston. I found my way there. But only after driving a few extra blocks, unnecessarily negotiating a treacherous roundabout, and vehemently cursing out all the city officials who thought it'd be too indulgent to mark any street north of Strand with a simple old fashioned SIGN. Hello! It would've helped.

Anyway, the fates weren't frowning. I found the street, found a parking space. Found, by way of the naturally gracious South African spirit, the BUILDING. (Asked a tooth-deficient parking matron who gladly and confidently directed me.) Found, finally, the office. At some point during this journey, I realized something about myself: Skyscrapers scare the crap out of me. They make me extremely nervous. I can't stand the revolving ground-floor doors - they're like hungry things trained to be friendly. The trip up in the elevator makes me feel like I'm going through some kind of terrible spiritual/mental/physical examination, as though every floor's a metaphor. The fact that I'm so high up in a structure - a structure that's designed to bend with and cleave to the will of the wind, the press of the elements - freaks me out. It all just scares the shit out of me.

But, anyway, I found the Delta official I was meant to speak with. She was in an afterthought of an office, a dingy little beige enclave with a real live plant (it was straining toward the window) and a kickass view. She had the majestic Sphinx of Lion's Head over one shoulder; beyond the other, I could see the dark trail of Platteklip, like a deep crease in the fabric of Table Mountain's face. Through the windows, the sky was a weird mix of blue and brown, like a photograph of the sea with coffee spilled on it. Like something extremely beautiful and more than a little bit dirty. The Delta woman, Vanessa, was a tad inefficient, but also reassuringly careful and exact about the data she was entering into her ancient computer. She made no mistakes about our names. I am Cynthia Trainer. Rutam is Cynthia Eliott. Thank goodness I haven't changed my name on my passport yet. Two Cynthia Eliotts? Good god. As it was, I was there for about an hour and half.

Eventually, she sorted everything out and I went home. On the way, I noticed a couple of things: the dense white cloud that cloaked the top of Table Mountain and how I wished I could be up there just for a few minutes in the midst of all that mist and vapor, choking on the freshness, white-blind on a cliff's edge; two people lazily smoking cigarettes (driver and front passenger) in a white van marked "South Africa Coast Guard Training"; how much I love the feeling of cities in winter. Something about the cool air and the concrete. Something about the grey nearness of those terrifying buildings; that low, bleak, unknowable sky.

Came home, ate runch. Began writing this post. Took Rutam for a stroller-walk to the video store, but they were closed, with a sign on the door. Something like: "Minor emergency. Be back around 5:30. Sorry." Was hoping to rent Entourage season three, disc one. Have been watching Entourage like it's my job. Have been missing Stumpy like crazy. Cooked, ate, fed Rutam dinner. Chicken, potatoes, squash, zucchini, banana. Am tired of this separation. Feel hostile stirrings in the universe. Can't wait to be with Stumpo again.

Sometimes I think sittin' on trains...

"You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits."

Winter has arrived in Ape Town and I'm really enjoying the cool freshness. The rain is wonderful and the sound of it makes for excellent sleeping. The excuse to sit around all day watching movies is a nice bonus too, as the beligerant sun and smug blue sky of summer can get a bit much for moody old Britt. However, sitting around is not one of Chui's favorite ways to pass the hours (neither is spying her shadow in the sun and descanting on her own deformity, in case you were wondering), so today, contrary to the dour protestations of my much-deserved, most-unwelcome hangover, I went to the gym.

Rutam is a big fan of the gym these days, because she gets to go and hang out in the children's zone, where all is fun and games, of course. Why do we do this to children? We welcome them into the world with warmth and tenderness; we ply them with games, rhymes, toys, and balloons - and they think, "Hey, this being alive thing is pretty great. I like it here. The people are nice, they're entertaining me constantly. The food's pretty decent, if not great. But, hey, I can't complain. I don't have to lift a finger." And then, they get older and we give them chores and force them to read "Treasure Island" in seventh grade and after that they're on their own. Party's over, pal. The V.I.P. room is now closed.

Anyway, back to the gym. At certain times, there is no more bizzare an activity than whirring away on the elliptical, observing your fellow apes gasp and sweat and grapple with their own mortalities on the other motion machines. Today was one of those times. The scene was ludicrous: a man running up and down three little steps over and over; an enormous personal trainer crouching lasciviously over his petite, well-toned client (ostensibly helping to "release her hamstring", I'm sure); a dude swimming laps with a snorkel. (What was so terrific down there that he just couldn't bear to take his eyes away, even to draw a breath of air? The concrete? The blue line?) Not to mention, of course, the rowing machines, the ellipticals, the treadmills and the stairmasters. Rats in a lab, all of us.

I had Hector's ipod with me, which usually gets me pretty pumped about the trial, as it were, of lab rat-ism. He has some sweet tunage on that thing, bro. However, today, with the albatross of last night hung snugly about my neck and face (and inner ear, apparently), I just couldn't seem to jump over or duck-dive through the great waves of physical and emotional duress that were rolling my way from a vast ocean of real and imagined hideousness. I was by turns extravagantly dizzy, inexplicably sad, giddily nervous and very hot. Visibly, redly, highly unattractively hot. And that was just the first two minutes; they seemed to last longer than the wedding scene from "The Deer Hunter". Also, I was perfectly incapable (for the first seventeen minutes or so) of finding any tunes that would elevate, or at least stabilize, my mood. I listened to (in order): Bad Sun (The Bravery), The Horizon Has Been Defeated (Jack Johnson), Take Your Mama (Scissor Sisters), The Passenger (Iggy Pop), Rise (Eddie Vedder) and... wait for it. You can see how I was all over the place, listening-wise, entertaining a range of idioms and tempos. It wasn't until the very end of my elliptimania that I found (finally!) a piece that put me in the mood to get past the nuttiness of the human animal in the gym (and out of the gym: They had one TV tuned to Sky News (like British CNN - basically shallow, repetitive, sensationalist news coverage dressed up like serious reporting) and the next to some ghastly VHI entertainment involving something they called "reality", though I didn't recognize it as such. One of those shows that gives you a superiority complex, because you can't help but think, "Are other people really this dumb?") and actually go for the burn. The song was "Paper Planes", of course. I find it near-impossible not to grin like a loony when I hear that one. It goes straight to my brain and suddenly we're all just decent and healthy grown-up kids who think running is fun (because it's faster than walking, duh) and being able to see under water is absolutely fantastic, even if you're just in a pool. Everyone's a winner! Next time, I will go directly to M.I.A.. I will not pass Go. I will not collect $200.

At some point during the song, I realized that I was too tired to go for my usual 20 minute run, but I was keen enough on the whole elevated heart-rate business to keep with the cardio. For about thirty seconds, I toyed with the notion of getting on one of the rowing machines, until the (usually) still small voice inside me piped up, "What a silly idea! You suck at rowing!" (Was that my voice or God's? Does God think I suck at rowing?) Somehow, magically, possibly even divinely, "Paper Planes" finished exactly as my 20 minutes on the elliptical machine also came to their end. What bliss! What next? Without the song, the gym resumed its air of rampant strangeness and my body began again its unsettling flirtation with various air-headed fugue states. I needed to be alone, I realized. I needed to sit and stretch, to be good to my spine.

I went into one of the big studio rooms they use for classes. When empty, these are great oases of calm and gentle dimness and relative privacy within the loud, hectic and sometimes overpopulated terrain of the Virgin Active. Today, this one contained only two other people, both women. They were not exercising, but gabbing away gaily about one of their pasts as a burlesque review artist (I think). They were discussing costumes and props (Chinese fold-out fans). It seemed as though one were advising the other about something, but I couldn't be sure. I was in the farthest corner of the room from them, hanging upside-down like a bat. I was very content, positively wallowing in the serenity of the place. My spine was purring like a kitten, my neck was humming "Ode to Joy" and my hamstrings - well, let's just say that I don't need any "help" releasing my hamstrings. (Is this getting weird? I feel like it is.) At some point, as I gladly bended and twisted, another two people came in, a man and a woman. They got into some sort of his and hers lunging routine involving dumbbells and grunting. I liked them; they seemed earnest. All was fine. All was good health, peace and light. Until - the jump-rope guy.

He entered the room with unremarkable civility; I barely even felt his presence. But then, suddenly, without fanfare or warning, he commenced his terrible drill. I guess I've never really been in the company of an unbelievably aggressive jump-roper. I have certainly been delighted in my life to have known a few infectiously enthusiastic double-dutchers, but never a sole jumper with this kind of intensity. The man was a maniac. In that whole huge room, sparsely peopled by just five other souls, he somehow found it necessary to get as close to me as possible, without actually singeing me with the rope. (A point about this room - it has mirrors that run along two long walls so that one may admire one's lats or correct one's form, etc.) He positioned himself directly behind me, so that his head was eerily aligned with mine (on the vertical) when I looked in the mirror. He was jumping with such speed and ferocity that the whir of the rope in the air made a high pitched noise that sounded like the theremin in the theme to the second season of The Outer Limits. The snap of it on the ground was the vigorous clacking of a speeding train. The Jumper was oblivious to all of this though; the thin white wires ran from his ears. You know the ones. The thing was, despite his energy and obvious passion- he was skipping the crap out of that rope - he was not exactly Muhammad Ali in the skill department. He kept screwing up and tripping and that was even more calamitous than when he was actually on a roll. It was all very worrying. Just when I thought I was over feeling fragile and threatened by the presence of strangers (for the day), this guy had to come along. I moved to the other end of the room and found a bit of solace in draping myself hither and thither across a giant rubber ball. Nothing too perverse. The others in the room seemed untroubled by The Jumper's mad antics and I wondered if I might be being a bit sensitive. Perhaps my only-child privacy and space issues were cropping up somehow. Maybe I should just get used to oblivious, effectively crazed, frantically rope-jumping men doing their thing dangerously close to me. Not sure. Will have to have sleep on that one.

Eventually, The Jumper tired of his deranged activity and moved on, as did I. I was through with the gym for the day. I went to fetch Rutam from the children's fiasco area. She was drooling, as usual, though this time the... stream (? What does one call a rivulet of drool?) was a charming shade of lavender thanks to the chalk she'd been munching on. The child minders assured me it was non-toxic. Possibly I will rather eat chalk the next time I find it necessary to consume an ungodly quantity of red wine. Red wine is most definitely toxic.

On the Waterfront

Did not make it to Toy Kingdom. Instead, made a deal with the Minister of Foreign Affairs (Hector (incidentally, I am the Minister of Home Affairs)) to watch the Super 14 rugby at Ferryman's, which is at the Waterfront, where Toy Kingdom is also located. Thought that I'd have a pint, a plate of fish and chips and be on my merry way to the land of Lego and Lite Brite. It was to be a beautiful marriage of sport (man) and shopping (woman (how 1950s am I?)). Instead, the outdoor play area for children at Ferryman's was chockablock with charming and capable children who fell in love with Chui on the spot and simply wouldn't let her leave. Somehow, match subsided to match, and we wound up staying for not one, not two, but nearly three rugby games, only to return to our restful Vredehoek quarters at nine pm!! Chui was in bed in her head before our key hit the lock and never even knew how close she'd come to a date with Robin's Egg Blue.

A side note: Before we left the house, Hector pointed out that, were we to get Chu a box of crayons at this point, she would be as likely to eat them as produce another Starry Night. Good point, dad. I'll take the rugger instead.

Is this the real life, is this just fantasy?

Nothing much to report today. Going to Toy Kingdom to get some Crayolas for Rutambo. I have very high hopes for Toy Kingdom (imagining it somewhat like what Bart Simposon imagines life is like after the kids are in bed: basically a fantastic circus of fun and laughs with Alfred E. Newman as ringmaster) and will be devastated if they do not vend that time-honored crowd-pleaser, the box of 64 with built-in sharpener. Am looking very forward to introducing Rutam to the pleasures of burnt sienna and raw umber.