Four letters

6MT puzzle

Let me tell you a not-so-little story. It involves a four-letter word, but I won’t reveal that just yet, no sirree.

Before I went to nursery school – back in the days when a single year of vague socialisation was seen as quite adequate for taming small children before they were dumped on hapless Grade 1 teachers – I fretted that I was woefully unprepared for school. I didn’t know how to write!

I would stare hopefully at the envelopes that arrived in our letterbox: handwritten ones, typed ones, plenty of them brown with funny little tracing-paper windows that made mom blanch. I would faithfully copy the letters on the typed ones but was only able to replicate the cursive ones by doing bouncy up-and-down wavy lines that (I hoped) would be intelligible to readers, somehow.

Walking through the doors of the church nursery school (hours: 9am to 12pm, daily), I discovered that nobody was going to expect large volumes of writing from me. In fact, they wanted me to colour-in and draw, mess with the sludgy beige-turning-grey homemade playdough that was mixed every week in the nursery kitchen, and submit to the torments of rowdy boys in OK Bazaars t-shirts and shorts. Writing was a non-issue, and the only reading going on was from one of the teachers just before hometime.

After being taught the basics of The Teacher Is Boss, I was hustled off to Grade 1 at a school under the benign dictatorship of one of the finest educators this country had. To this day, Frank Braun is remembered as the ideal headmaster, beloved by children and parents, alike. The school was run like no other that I have heard of before or since.

Within days of starting Grade 1, I was unleashed on the alphabet. Mom had to help me find some words that started with A – my first homework. (None of this namby-pamby easing kids into learning with toys and sitting in fun little groups on colour-coded mats). Problem… mom is a crossword puzzle freak. Back then she was highly competitive to the point where she and a good friend would enter every single crossword puzzle competition available in the Sunday papers (yes, dear former ST colleagues, I cut my teeth on those bloody crosswords when I could barely read, so taking on the management of that puzzles page in the mid-2000s was a doddle – I’d plotted the coup for years…)

So darling mom, the crossword-puzzle maven, supplied me with “A” words like “apple”, “ant”, “asp”. Yes, asp – the biblical-Egyptian slithery dude. I still remember Miss Morrison’s blank stare as I handed her my page of words.

From there it was a quick journey to the “clever row” at the back of the class – the blue row, where five or six of us ruled like mini-despots. Green row in front of us contained the aspirant eggheads, yellow row had the battlers, and red row was – to the blue tyrants – the lost causes. In fact, it’s possible that most were dyslexic or had valid learning difficulties, but that was not yet a field of diagnosis in 70s South Africa. You passed a year or you failed a year, simple as that. And you wrote tests or exams from Grade 1.

Spelling tests became a competition: see who remembered the list most accurately, then write it down faster than Miss could call it out during the test session. When we hit the higher grades and standards, the same applied to the spelling-and-dictation tests: remembering the word list and the dictation passage verbatim, then slamming down your pen so that the message went out to the other “clever kids” that you’d got it done first. (We must have been the most incorrigible bunch to deal with, this diminutive oneupmanship was never-ending.)

In those early years, my brother and I were cared for by my granny during school holidays. Daycare was not A Thing. My mom was a rarity, a working woman. Most kids had their moms at home, or else a nanny. We had granny. And granny had what was known as the sunroom: a comfortable room where there were a few hundred books to read, the radio to listen to, an electric heater in winter, comfy old lounge suite, and A Typewriter. One of those old things that could have been used as a defensive weapon against invading hordes: cast-metal frame, hefty keys, a teeth-shattering mechanism that could be slammed back violently when doing a carriage return.

The day I was allowed access to it was like heaven had opened. I would now be A Writer.

Poems. Prose. Stories. Nonsense. Rewinding the typewriter ribbon over and over again because nobody wanted to replace it – money didn’t grow on trees, and we could still read the letters that got thwacked onto the back of pages ripped from my grandfather’s war-engineers club AGMs.

I wrote and illustrated any number of stories. When TV came along in 1976, it was a non-event because there was no money for one of them. So, reading and writing remained, and listening to the radio was fuel for the imagination (I am still quite at ease listening to the TV as a form of radio – I only have a look when the commentary or soundtrack no longer explains the action).

Alas, my further school career was a study in boredom. I hated it. Only three subjects interested me: English, Art, and Geography. My highest Matric mark was for English, but even that was not stellar, a dismal C. English, if delivered by shellshocked teachers who have washed up on the hills of southern Joburg, would never inspire greatness.

There followed art college, where I did my best, tried clever prose in mock campaigns for imaginary products, graduated with middling marks, and then hit the big time.

I landed in a newsroom. The crossword-grammar-spelling kid had arrived. There was a dedicated editing system (pre-desktop-PC) called Atex. Oh, it had newsfeeds from all over the world, read-only access to my colleagues’ works-in-progress, a messaging system similar to email, and the ability for me to use my personal log-in to Write Stuff. Heaven.

Came the 90s and we went digital, we little graphic artists. On Apple Macs. The joy. My personal fiefdom in a beige box on my desk. Write and read and imagine. Make sure that the words I put in my graphics make sense. I began a particular journey.

At some point in the late 90s, I realised that I was correcting the text my colleagues provided, but I said nothing, and I don’t know if they realised it was me doing it – could be that they thought I was getting it checked by the subs?

Mid-2000s, and I enacted my coup to manage the puzzles section of the ST. Attention to detail was supreme – have you ever had to deal with an enraged chap from a retirement village in Sedgefield? Or his countrywide cohorts who have nothing better to do from Sunday to Sunday? A misplaced number or letter would mean a deluge to the paper’s email complaints inbox. And woe betide any sub-editor who failed to put the correct grid in place.

At some point, it became accepted that I would tidy up copy if it didn’t fit a graphic, or come up with a workaround on a promotional piece. Brainstorming with section editors for headings, captions, and sub-heads. I was in my element, especially when what I’d come up with went straight through the editing process and was published. I also loved to bug the revise sub on a minor tweak or definition of something.

One memorable December, the then-editor of the ST came to me with a proposal: produce a broadsheet page blockbuster of a crossword for the holiday edition on Page 2. Where would we get it? What would it cost? And that’s when I realised he was looking at me rather intently. WE were to do it. WE. Us. Me, with help from the silly-season staff and him. I drew a deep breath, said “YES!” and then contemplated the time frame. It was Wednesday. Deadline was Saturday at 5:30pm.

Short-story-made-long: we did it. Questions were given to me. I sourced pics. And began drawing up the grid, slotting in the clues, making the words fit. Checking, cross-checking. Those three nights all I dreamed was CROSSWORD PUZZLE.

And now, here I am five years later. No longer a staffer at the ST, an artist once again, a designer still, and now we get to that four-letter word.

I edit other people’s words and work. For a living.
I edit their blogs before they publish them. I do proof-reading on existing websites because the owners are aware that something isn’t right, or it’s unclear, but they don’t know how to fix it or have the time, anyway.

I make no pretence of having any tertiary qualification in English, although I would like to change that and have my love of this weird world of words given some stamp of approval and recognition.

Four letters.



August winds down


Birds are hurling themselves at each other in a frantic ritual of procreation. The jasmine is erupting in voluptuous wafts of heady scent, sending out trailers of greenery to grasp at every surface. Fish eagles drift overhead, taunting the resident force of crows who scramble the squadron to intercept the intruder. Doves coo and posture along tree branches, then make messy nests after the courtship deal is sealed. And the watsonias are painting impressionist splashes across the almost-alpine fields of the high Outeniquas.

It’s springtime in the Garden Route.

And that means there are Events.

School fairs and fêtes abound. The stadium fills with supporters and players from local rugby clubs playing in the district finals. A venison festival at the moederkerk along the main street. And then there’s the main event: the town’s annual agricultural show.

Tractors and diggers on show—full-blast yellow outlined against the cobalt sky.
The funfair emits shrieks from momentarily-terrified riders on bright-painted, land-based rocket ships and contraptions.
_DSC9732Sweating horses strut, prance, and canter their way through fancy-dress parades, buggy displays, and paired parades.
Placid cows turn their backs to passing viewers while munching at hay in their stalls, a pair of calves gaze in wide-eyed shyness at peering faces.

Teenagers adrift, scenting out potential partners, their hair sculpted to razor-edge perfection, clothes clinging to pulled-in tummies.
Moms barging through with triangle-wheeled prams, dads clutching their toddlers by the hand or imprisoning them on shoulders high above the crowd.
A crew of hooded boys hip-hop past with an enormous home-made boom box, eyes seeking out the approval of friends and rivals.

Barefoot children scamper and scuttle around the periphery of events arenas, ogling the strongmen hefting tractor tyres, staring at the tug-of-war contests that have brought participants from as far away as Zimbabwe and Limpopo. _DSC9902Women’s teams, men’s teams, mixed-gender teams, police teams, school teams, university teams, national teams. Mud, straw, shredded grass, boundary tape snapping at onlookers, makeshift kidney belts to prevent strain. Dreadlocks, floppy-fringed combover shaved heads, perspiration, anticipation, cheers (but no jeers).

And never forget the edibles. Every food group is represented, in fried form, of course. A vast beer tent. Cheese and wine in another tent—but they have run out of glasses so you’re forced to buy a whole bottle to take home. Ice cream vans have queues a few dozen people in length. _DSC9887Biltong, steak, droë wors, chicken, chip-n-dip, and the ever-present Garden Route speciality…calamari-and-chips. Oh, and there’s even a taco truck, labelling itself “Mexican street food”.

Market stalls with the ubiquitous ‘karoo crafts’ made of distressed wood, MDF board, pastel paints, sporting windmill stamps or insignia. Stalls with wicked knives, bottled ‘spring’ water, sweets and chocolates that can send you straight to a diabetic afterlife, fly-by-night ‘education’ courses, massage chairs and devices that supposedly shake away your fat or your aches and pains—after you’ve consumed all the food groups on offer.

And at the end of the day, everyone is generally tired and happy, full of food and drink, loaded with things they don’t really need (but bought anyway), and coated with dust, bits of straw, and the unique ‘perfume’ of an agricultural show.

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All photographs in this post are copyright to the author.

Sixty Million Burnt Trees

Last year, I moved to the Garden Route so that I could find a place of quieter contemplation and endless beauty.

Then, this past week I found something greater – a place of stalwart, kind people who have determination and generosity of spirit, unequalled.

The fires that tore myriad paths through the coastal plain changed a place of unmatched beauty into an enormous ash pit. Homes obliterated, properties razed to the ground, families fleeing, pets gathered into arms and buckets and boxes, vital documents snatched from safe places, clothing stuffed into pillowcases, cars loaded up, buses sent in convoy from nearby municipalities, firefighters squashed onto flights from other metropolitan areas, trucks bearing drinkable water and babies’ nappies.

Volunteers standing in vast warehouses or parking garages, lining up a thousand parcels with necessities. Willing hands sorting clothes into the right sizes, age groups, male or female. Sacks of dog food, packs of cat food, vans loaded with teff and feed for horses – who were then shoved into horseboxes and turned out onto school playing fields to graze along the touch lines…who knows, there might be a clutch of ‘Fire Foals’ in eleven months time?

Rich and poor, male and female, young and old, sitting side-by-side in smart hotels, being fed by willing staff – who were still trying to accommodate overseas guests who’d booked their stays months ago. Tourist accommodation destroyed. Hordes huddled at the edge of the Knysna lagoon, shivering with cold and shock, staring back at the land as they saw familiar neighbourhoods outlined by searing amber flames many metres high.

Firestorms tracking horizons, thick smoke like the spill from a careless artist’s palette, blotched above. Familiar landmarks silhouetted as if a child had done a pretty cardboard cutout for a festival card. Cars turning back in confusion as they crested a hill to see that what they were fleeing towards was worse than what they were fleeing from.19059177_10155419972306983_8594123412731899968_n.jpg

Firefighters hauling hoses “over the top” like soldiers fighting trench warfare of World War 1. Grizzled volunteers, sinews and muscles straining as if carved from wildsvleis biltong. Young women, smiling in triumph as they unravel hoses from newly-arrived firetrucks.


Sooty faces, tears of exhaustion, cracked lips, eyes burning, heads bowed. A quick drink after a ten-minute respite under a tree, then back to the front to face the “beast with one hundred arms”.

In towns nearby, trucks arriving after a night on the road to offload donations from large retailers, courier services bringing in medical supplies, animal welfare societies clearing space for animals coming in from the afflicted towns. Internationally-connected organisations gathering funds both locally and overseas, signs and notices at local shops asking for specific items for donation – water, energy drinks, chocolates, lip balm.

And above it all, the wind howled like a deranged banshee, a gleeful demon breathing life into the flames and fanning them along at speeds unimaginable. Trees uprooted as if they were pesky weeds, banners and signs slapped down like cards in a deathly game of poker. Flames dancing a flamenco across the national highway, clapping and stamping into the drought-stricken fynbos so that one of the few ways to get to the stormfront was blocked.

It isn’t over yet. I may be writing part two at some point, but I’ll say this: South Africans know how to pull together. We did it before. We can do it again.

Those politicians and poseurs who flit around in the upper atmosphere of the fuck-you-stocracy? Look at this and learn. Push the average person right to the brink – or beyond – and you will find they are made of granite and love, grit and concern.

That is all.


(Please message me if you would like your organisation added to the list below)

It is here

Tomorrow marks a year since I shoved the last of the blankets and sleeping bags into the car and prepared for the Groot Trek. Joziburg™ to the Garden Route.

It is the biggest step that I had ever made in my life. Uprooting myself from my hometown, ripping my teenager away from her friends, bundling the dog and the parrot into a combustion-engined metal box, and sending the whole lot of us hurtling down the N1 and beyond.

People sometimes say that things like this feel just like yesterday – I beg to differ in this instance. It feels like it happened to another person. I have to look at TimeHop or my Facebook history to grasp the enormity of what I did, and even then… I am bamboozled by some of the images and observations.

I was exhausted, so utterly and completely exhausted, that I no longer paid attention to the “things I must do”. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to plan the journey to last three days – as opposed to the two days that most holidaymakers would – so we only drove for a little under three hours before our first stop outside Bloemfontein._DSC7336.JPG

We had been sleeping on the floor at our old house because the removal truck had taken everything away five days before, so the sight of real beds with real mattresses was incredibly welcome. Add to that a delicious solid dinner provided by an attentive hostess…we were sated.

The following day we headed for Colesberg where we had more comfortable accommodation, along with a meal fit for royalty – Karoo lamb at a truly sublime restaurant.

On the third day, the “big stretch” beckoned. Colesberg to Knysna.

I need to detour a bit here. Some ten or so years ago, I was in a car accident that left me with a deep-seated fear of driving. Imagine now, how I coped with over 1000km of horizon-busting tar? They say “suck it up, buttercup”. So that’s what I did. Sucked it up. No one would be there to save me. If I had a meltdown alongside the road, I would not be able to send an SOS and have some white knight rescue me. Shrinking violets never last long in the Karoo.

And so we headed for Uniondale via Graaff-Reinet.
The parrot would occasionally make an observation, in her very avian lingo. The dog would whine every few hours for a toilet break. The teenager would comment about the lack of food.

We dealt with it. The properly polite dog accompanied us into a restaurant, and the parrot held court in the front seat of my car (windows rolled down a bit) while a very chilled carguard looked askance at the car containing said parrot, while we ate.

Parrot, teenager, and dog all napped while I drove through the Valley of Desolation beyond Graaff-Reinet.

Lootsberg Pass – a trip down memory lane from road trips past as a child.

Uniondale. And a short resurrection from sleep for the teenager, who was looking for the ghost._DSC7342.JPG

Unsurprisingly, Uniondale up until the turnoff towards the Outeniqua Pass was scenic – but I was the only one who saw it. And I loved it. I know now that it is a trip I need to do again so that I can extract the astringent juices of experience from it.

We stopped halfway down the pass. I had an amazed teenager. A bursting dog. And a nonchalant parrot.

We had done what I had only imagined we could do.

And we are here. One year later.

Make no mistake: it has not been easy. I have drawn on reserves of faith in myself that I didn’t know I had. (My faith is in myself, and nothing else.) I have stared into the darkness, at 3am, trying to justify this piece of madness. Asking how I did it. Why I did it.

And yet? What else could I do? I am the master of my fate. I hold the keys to my success. I may need help and love and support, but at the very end it is only I who will be deciding.

I decided. I did. Here I am.




Start in the Middle

Many intriguing books or movies start the story in the middle. This allows the reader or viewer to ponder what came before. Why are the characters doing this? How did they get there? What will they do next? Does the past have a significant impact on their next move?

I’m here in the middle, making a new start. What came before is what brought me here. What brought me here is what affected me before. Life and endless circles. And endless running around.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve been slack. Four months of blog silence.


Because, winter. Oh, dear gawd, winter. Why did I arrive in the Garden Route during one of its coldest winters in memory? I brought my Joziburg™ assumption with me – that the Garden Route has one of the world’s most moderate climates (on average). Alas, I forgot about El Niño, which decided to turn the lovely southern Cape coast into North Antarctica this year.

Staying in furnished, rented accommodation that had a view second-to-none did not compensate for the icy howling gales that razored across the hillside where I lived. Luckily for me – and my teenage offspring – we found a house to buy, in George, closer to school and Things That Matter.

And so we have moved – to a home with a view to the mountains that soar almost 1500m to the sky.


A gentle garden, mixing an English eccentricity with African forest. Birds that chirp and shriek and serenade, whilst stuffing their beaks with bounty from the feeder, or ending up as morning tea for the resident leopard-cat-tiger. Little thug! I had to dispose of the bloody remains of two fledglings, which were being butchered on the carpet in the passage. Two! He must have felt like a shopper who’d scored a two-for-one bargain in the bin nearest the checkout.

Right now, the house is an obstacle course of flattened boxes, half-unpacked boxes, toppling-over boxes, lurking boxes, boxes for charity, boxes with re-assigned contents, and STUFF spread out all over the place. I’ve made great progress in reducing the box population from almost 100 containers to roughly a dozen. Furniture that had specific uses back in Joziburg™ has been repurposed – the hall table is now in my bedroom because it simply looks better there. A lamp that lurked in the library is now spotlighting my desk. The whole process is almost a rite or a festival of new choices. Christmas with a twist?

My very astute daughter said to me recently that our Joziburg™ home was the cocoon and that we are now the butterflies in a new garden. It’s an interesting analogy. And if you knew my old home you would see the parallels. Dimly-illuminated corners (albeit interesting ones) are now replaced by air and sunlight. A sense of space and openness. Big blue skies, grumbling folds of mountains, forested dells with delicate ferns and shy orchids, and dust roads that unravel through farms that slumber in the heat. Beaches that glow like amber at sunset, waves lacing their way through rocks, with sea birds standing sentinel as they contemplate dinner.

Start as you mean to go. From the middle.


Postcards at Dawn

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   They march across the dimly-lit horizon, massive worn-down teeth of a sleeping dragon – the Outeniqua mountains, just before sunrise. Ragged edges. Smooth slopes. Shadowed ravines. A purple haze that looms out of the gloom. Fields and forests and valleys coating the lower slopes and flatlands.



I’m doing the morning school run, driving parallel to this moving, shifting masterpiece. The sun is still well below the horizon, the clouds splay out above, catching fire from beneath because the sun is still so low.

Every turn in the road, every dip of a valley, reveals new things that make me happy I made this move.

Farm dams that mirror the sky, and the cows strolling like grey ghosts to drink, their reflections as perfect as upside-down twins. Sometimes I can tell that the cows have already been milked, other times I can see their bulging udders – relief is probably an hour or two away.

On a slope, a cluster of sacred ibis shake out their feathers as they preen momentarily. They could be preparing to leave for a new Garden-Route ‘larder’ or else they may have just landed and are gearing up for a day of intense foraging.

Closer to town, the horses in the paddocks at the showground continue grazing – their meals have no set time. Eating is about living to eat some more.

During the past few months, the roadworks in town have snarled up what there is of a rush hour. Traffic cops in safety vests glow green in the half-light as they direct cars, trucks, and buses across unmarked intersections.

The return journey shows the other side of the palette. The sun is behind me, poking long rays across the land and dabbing peachy washes of watercolour on the dragon’s teeth. It’s as if I am being pursued by a paintbrush loaded with light.

White egrets, in rough v-formations, stitch their way above me in my car on the road below. At sunrise and sunset I see dozens of these egret flocks – back in Joziburg™ I was fortunate if I saw two or three in a group. Here, they feast in the hundreds on the insect life thrown up by the farmers’ ploughs, and on the bug life kicked around by flocks of sheep and cows.

As I wind my way steadily westwards, the road twists and begins its descent to the shoreline. This is where I like to open my window a bit and grab a noseful of the coastal bush. It’s a smell like no other – I picture it as deep olive green, heavy, damp, dense. Imagine if I could bottle it?

On the last straight run to ‘my’ village I cross the river. The water is as smooth as polished glass, a mirror of the world above it. On the rusty old supports of the old rail bridge, the resident cormorant ignores me completely. He has better fish to find.

A Recipe for Laughter

There’s nothing I like more than seeing something that makes me laugh or really think about what took place…and sometimes I stare in amazement! My arrival in the Garden Route has been punctuated by a series of these moments.


On the second or third day here, we were confronted by a donkiekar trundling the streets of George’s suburbs, sifting through residents’ rubbish bins and garbage. In Joziburg™ there are waste pickers too, but the guys on those operations pilot ricketty trolleys that look like they’ve been salvaged from a warehouse yard. Self-drive and potentially lethal when they steer them down steep hills, fully loaded. Meanwhile, George operates at a more gentle pace.

Then there were the two gentlemen, in York Street the other day, who had stripped off their shirts and were engaged in a serious bout of fisticuffs in the parking lot of a small shopping centre. Security guards looked on, benignly. I have no idea what prompted it, but they were quite clearly frustrated with each other.

At the Pacaltsdorp offramp from the N2, two tractors in the middle of peak traffic. No one blinked.

A Friday afternoon, in the village, a young man strolls along the pavement, strumming a guitar and serenading no one in particular. Further down the road, three girls swoop around and across the street on their bikes. Traffic? What’s that? One is dressed in her best frock and shoes. Clearly, cycling with friends is a proper occasion.

Outside Pick ‘n Pay, friends exchange news, asking about someone whose baby is a tad overdue. It’s easy to park, just pull into the slot right outside the door of said Pick ‘n Pay. Across the road in the neat and green park, some people have fishing lines in the river. Dinner, or maybe just a way of kuiering for a bit.

Oh, and it is true. Awê [ah-weh] really is a valid greeting if you’re conducting a conversation across the main street. Joziburgers™ tend to make a joke about Cape slang, implying it’s an affectation or a mockery. It isn’t. Awê.

On the road out of Blanco, there is a berry farm. Yes, a real farm where you can go pick your own real berries of all kinds. The only berries I’ve ever picked have been from the fruit section at Woolies!

Last week, we saw a whole field of mielies being harvested – indeed, they do not come clad in cling wrap, or from the trolley of a mielie lady. The following day, that same field was being ploughed under.

The pair of donkeys, creating another generation of donkeys, right next to the fence alongside the road. A black cow, on the farm in the village, that seems to stay in one place in the field, day after day. “There’s that cow again!”

And then: Manners. Politeness. People here will always greet you, even if you’re at the stop street with your window wound down, waiting your turn to go. The pedestrian who is crossing will say hello. The checkout lady will say hello and “wannabeg” [do you want a bag]. Mind you, even when your car window is closed, you will be greeted by a small wave or a tip of the head from a passerby. At first, I kept looking back to see who the recipient was…until I realised it was me.

Farmers, in their bakkies, parked either side of the road, having a chat across the sleepy R102 from George to Great Brak. They’re in shorts and big boots-with-socks, wearing tracksuit tops, and mashed hats on their heads. I wave. They do too.

People want to talk. To chat. To natter. I have found my home! Haha. I know I am notorious for simply yakking to anyone who seems to be a likely target; well, now I am a target too. It’s really nice!

Something else, George is a city of schools and colleges. So many kids walking to and fro at starting and finishing times, passing by each other, depending if they’re from the English school, the Afrikaans schools, the high schools, or the primary schools. Government schools, private schools, technical schools, special schools. Schools. Schools. Schools.

Finally, the wild life…

Guinea fowl in our little enclave. Kê-kê-kê-kê whenever they get skrikked and take off like feathered rugby balls. Vast flocks of cattle egrets that fly over at random times. Forktail drongos with a sweet call that belies their clumsy name. Francolins pecking alongside the road. The cheeky robins and wagtails that tease our cats. The waterfowl in the dams on the way to town. Sacred ibis digging in the marshy bits. Hadedas everywhere. Grey herons stalking grandly amongst the reeds. The odd raptor glaring from the top of a tree [note to self: start looking hard at Robert’s Bird Book].

On the beach: seagulls shitting everywhere. Terns (I think), crying across the lagoon, then freaking out when we get too close. In the shallows: barely visible, tiny fish darting in and out the shallows – instant fish pedicure if you have the patience to sit motionlessly and wait for them to find out if you’re edible… Hermit crabs fighting over who has the right to the bigger shell. I never see the end of that because something always disrupts the altercation.

In the house: oh my…the blackest, shiniest scorpion I’ve ever seen. He’d been clinging to my camera bag (or sheltering under it) and got dumped on the chair. I thought he was plastic at first. Not. Mild panic, fetch a glass and some cardboard, send him on his way over the wall.

Ants. Ants. AntsAntsAnts. To the point where our pets won’t even touch their food because the ants are capable of building ant bridges over the water that is supposed to protect the food. I surrendered to buying an ant trap. Either the ants die or my pets starve. No contest.

Shongololos. I love them. These are small buggers, though. But you have to jump a bit if you look like you’ll squish one. I prefer them whole, not mashed. They can be found everywhere in the house.

Ticks. Farksakes. Ticks. The worst of the lot. The dog went a-wandering last week and obviously visited the tick maternity ward on the hill. Unbeknownst to us, he brought several dozen little ‘pets’ back, and left them all over the duvets. Small dots of ‘black pepper’ all over the cotton. Yack. Yack. Yack. We brushed the dog until he was rather angry at the excessive attention. We washed the bedding. We vacuumed like demons. Tea tree oil has been spritzed everywhere, and flea-and-tick drops administered.

Oh, and then there’s the golden orb spider. But she knows her place. Outside. Strung between the potato bush and the abelia. She’s wise…stay out of our house and we’ll stay out of hers.