The other day I emailed my hero. 

I was thinking about Jono and my vision for Hilton, BOOMTOWN, the gallery, and storytelling. Who’s the landmark writer that I want to attach to a mural? 

Only one name came to mind. A writer who can capture a space, bottle it, shake it around, make it fizz, and then pass it to an unsuspecting human as the ultimate thirst quencher. 

Ivan Vladislavic. 

Open the bottle. I dare you. 

I’d been avoiding writing to him, because we’re told to never reach out to heroes. 

Apparently they’re always a hot mess of disappointment.

Or they ignore you. 

Or worse, they provide a short perfunctory response. The kind of response where you don’t have to be part of the Bletchley Circle to read between the lines. They’re not actually delighted you’ve reached out. Fans are an annoying and necessary evil. And the “luck with future endeavours” they bestow upon you is about as genuine as Balenciaga’s socio-political statement.    

Anyway, luckily for you, and the purposes of this story, “throw caution to the wind” I do not. So taking a note out of my hero’s book I began writing…

Dear Prof Vladislavic… 

It takes only a few words to start something. The spotlight shines brightly, you’re alone on the stage. Self doubt over sounding like an asshole starts to creep in. It’s best to continue and go with it. Wit is there in the background to make a cameo appearance. Reflection settles down the nervous audience. The chorus is there to bring it back when you lose direction. Soon it’s an effortless dance with only a few miss-steps here and there. 

The curtain closes. You press send. You hope the audience is forgiving. 

You wait for the review.  

I expected a long wait. The forgotten ghosts of unresponsive emails egging me on.

And then, five days later, from his private email address, his reply brought the walls of my laptop to life. A voice from amongst the row of lonely silent open tabs.

A landmark.

A reminder to write. A reminder to be patient. A reminder that landmarks are created out of nothing. Every space has the potential to become something more. To become a place.

Stories create paths through the clutter towards landmarks. Landmarks that are created by artists. And if you’re lucky, the community provides the soft landing and believes in, and traverses towards these places.

Welcome to BOOMTOWN. 

PS: Ivan (we’re on a first name basis now) says once he’s finished his new book he might be compelled to write a mural. Luckily, for this developing story, “throw caution to the wind” I do not. Watch these walls.

By now you’ll know that there are no prizes for sitting in the corner, and if anyone loves a public platform it’s me. I don’t just volunteer to do speeches, I actively push myself into the programme. So it was a no brainer, I was going to haul ass to the microphone come hell or high water. And boy did we have both. Saturday was the Grand Opening of Gallery ZAZA, and I kind of knew what was on the cards for the weather (in some circles they call me Jaqstradamus). 

I was the child who never got to have a pool party because every single birthday of mine was an absolute fucking rotter of a day. Fortunately, I was the type of child who was more into the food table, and less into the swimming pool, but it would have been nice to have the option.

Typically, Saturday morning rolled in a bit wet, and as each hour towards 10am approached it got steadily more like the “vicious cycle” on the washing machine.

At some point you resign yourself to these things and just open a beer. The breakfast beer helped to settle the nerves and things started to look up. However, Murphy was having a whale of a time, and so, as if by magic, things started to snowball spectacularly. The only thing keeping my sense of perspective intact was the wedding we had at the Hilton Hotel where the marquee literally blew away, tables ended up in the pool, and a tree split the best man’s car in half. The bride and groom ended up having their wedding in the Mist & Drizzle pub because every other venue was occupied. Turns out it was the best wedding ever.

I’d like to maintain the illusion that everything went according to plan on Saturday, but when the hail started and the generator flooded my adrenaline decided it was going to go into hyperdrive. Jono suggested cancelling speeches altogether, and for a few seconds I agreed. Then I reassessed, and decided I was completely keen to get up there and do my shit. Sadly there are times when the body and the mind have what some would call an “unconscious uncoupling” and others would call a cataclysmic divorce. My brain, it turns out, has still not grasped that “mind over matter” thing. Cue Uncontrollable Shaking from stage right. Of course the more I tried to control it, the worse it got. It’ll be chalked up as one of those performances that I’d sooner forget, but I guess I can reframe it and say it was special because it was so shit.

Anyway, here’s what I said. (For authenticity, if you read it out loud I suggest sitting on your washing machine and setting it to take off mode.) 

I remember when David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear, it was pretty dope. My question was, what’s next David? Get better David, do more! 

Magic in this context is about instant gratification and constantly seeking to amaze an increasingly unfocused and overstimulated audience. 

Perhaps it’s time to reframe. To slow down. To bask. 

As a child, magic was the recesses of imagination, it was the slow and lingering anticipation of the Easter Bunny, Father Christmas, and the Tooth Mouse. It was waking up on Christmas morning to the crumbs of a mince pie, an empty glass of brandy, and a nibbled carrot. It was that first pair of ballet shoes, putting Dubbin on a first soccer ball, watching a movie on the big screen for the very first time. Smelling the birthday cake fresh from the oven. 

For me, magic is about finding stories in strange places, but it’s also the ability to create them out of banal familiarity. Magic is painting pictures from nothing, from procuring sounds and smells from a string of small words, it’s the art of making a world out of nothing. Magic takes effort. 

Magic is home. Magic is place. Magic is community. It’s quite literally the stories we share. 

So allow me to share a story. 

My very first home was the cottage at the Hilton Hotel, further up the road from there is the Shell garage which was the only petrol station in the village. In those days Hilton was a village. Opposite the Shell, the Hilton Town Board Hall. This is where I’d spend Tuesday and Thursdays at Ros Nicholson’s School of Ballet. Here I proved my inability to live up to the expectation of Jaqualina Ballerina. The Town Board Hall was also where our folks went to pretend to look at our kak art, while they drank beer at the annual Hilton Lion’s Fair. Where every skottel braai in Hilton met once a year to play host to lashings of frying onions and sweaty wors. Carry on over the bridge, now festooned with flowers… If you were to sneak under that bridge you might happen upon me, in my later years doing rebellious things. If you take a right, you get to Laddsworth, a place that forged me into who I am. A school filled with the Sally Kellys, Pete Liddles, and Flick Wrights of the world. Humans who inspired magic from within the linear face brick architecture. 

Not far from Laddsworth is Hilton PrePrimary, the biggest most magnificent place on earth. Sandpits the size of Olympic swimming pools, a race track like Monza, a woodworking table fit for Santa’s elves, jungle gyms, and a crown for when it’s your birthday.

After school, if we were lucky, we went straight to the Fruit Basket, since demolished, or the Spar owned by the Footselars (I’ve used bad phonetics here) for a Super Moo. Sometimes Dave Hansmeyer would give us biltong. Often we’d have to hang around in Hilton Drapers waiting for our mums to have hour long “quick chats” and buy fabric to turn into matching tracksuits. All the kids in Hilton were dressed the same. Primary coloured tracksuits, gumboots, or Bata takkies from the Aladdin’s cave that is Kubela Stores. On Sundays we’d head to the Hilton Tea room clutching R1 coins to buy our candy cigarettes and other contraband sugar laden guilty pleasures. Terry the Greek would know which kids’ parents gave permission to buy the Benson and Hedges Special Milds for the dad in the car rushing to get to Opstal to blast clay pigeons out of the sky.

We had to make our own fun. Kid friendly bars and restaurants were basically those that allowed parents to push two bar stools together for small bodies to nap on. Communal parenting was everything. Wherever you were at 4pm is where you bathed. BMXs zooted down every road, pizza came out of a freezer and into an oven. We ate polony sandwiches by the dozen. Juice was red, green, or orange. It was an adventure to open the post box at the Post Office and see if there was anything exciting. Tupperware parties and book clubs were touted as these mysterious and magical events for our slippered feet to peek in on. 

Hiltonians have a history of seeing potential, as if looking through the mist and imagining what lies beyond it. And it’s up to us to create, to build, to explore, to play, and to throw glitter, confetti, and magic markers at every single problem.

Gallery ZAZA was an empty blank corporate office. It was the ultimate blank canvas. Now it’s the product of the passion and vision that only Jono Hornby could have cooked up. Even the starlings are dazzled. It’s home, and now things are appearing, not disappearing, as if by utter magic. It’s up to us, we can appear, or we can disappear. 

Special thanks to the amazing Hilton community for the awesome turn out, we had the best day sharing the space with you, and making it a place. There’s so much more to come, and I’m super jazzed!

On this occasion, it was 3 am, I was in Room 36 at the Hilton Hotel, and my brother Nicholas thought it would be bloody hilarious to wake me up from my slumber to enjoy a few seconds of euphoria, before realising it was March, and the Royal Show was a few months away. What an asshole. He really is brilliant. 

Fast forward to July 2021, and I found myself waking up to go to the Royal Show. And yes, I did have a tremendous sense of euphoria. This was despite the news that the showgrounds have been sold, and the days of the Royal Agricultural Show are another vestige of the past. 

Vestiges of the past. Remember going to Mike’s Kitchen and trying to get as many lollipops from the barrel by the door? Remember the fish tank at Da Vinci’s? Remember going to Capital Towers to watch a movie? Remember soft serve from Icy Cool Piping Hot? Remember being underage and trying to get into Buzz Bar? Remember Shuter and Shooter and getting lost in the sea of shelves? Remember going to Super Bodies to watch your mum do aerobics and being blinded by the men in unitards and leg warmers? Remember having a K-TV sticker on your space case and buying a snap bangle from the Lion’s Fair? But most of all, remember the Royal Show. 

I still remember going on the “baby rides” and anxiously looking for my mummy amidst the crowd of parents. Fast forward a few years, and I’m on the carousel, and my dad is standing on the platform next to the pink horse that I’m riding. He’s there in case I get scared, which is almost inevitable because if my Pre Primary report cards are anything to go by, I have the coordination and balance of an inebriated baby giraffe. On ice skates. Later that day, we’ll stand in the queue so my brother and I can get temporary passes to go into the members’ stand so we can watch horses do things I don’t really understand. The name Gonda Beatrix echoing through the loudspeakers. In those days, there was candy floss, those shakey balloons, and toffee apples that I still don’t see the point of. Siff. 

Then it was off to the army display, which was the same every year, but we still went because that’s just “what you do.” A visit to the rabbit hall, which incidentally I got banned from because one year my best friend David had the temerity to ask a woman with a very large “friend of the bunnies” rosette, whether they supply the Boston Barbeque. Sheep shearing, cows on parade, dodging animal crap, lots of hay. The smell of animals with a whiff of doughnut. Lining up to go through the “this is the rainfall cycle” just so that you could get a free Clover yoghurt. And speaking of free food, trawling through the food hall for free samples. Pretending you’re a connoisseur of preserves, with R25 to spend on a jar of posh jam, just so that you can carry on scoffing. Giggling as you walk away thinking you’d hoodwinked the cross jam lady with an ‘I’ll come back later and buy a jar.’ 

And then the second-best bit of the show. The much-underrated hall with all the weird shit made by grannies, bored homemakers, a few house husbands, and kids. I once entered a rock animal, and I’m proud to say that I got a “Commended” award. The judges’ comments applauded my imagination, but were stern in the amount of glue I’d used. ‘Take care not to use too much glue,’ they said. That’s right kids, stay off drugs. Obviously the kid who won had an overzealous mother, or maybe was just blessed with better artistic genes than me? Perhaps this child with the ravishing Highly Commended Rosette was given proper modeling glue instead of a bloody glue gun? Who knows. Safe to say I didn’t enter an artwork again; the judges clearly don’t know genius when they see it. 

In the early days, the arts and crafts hall was the main hall. You entered, and it was just chockablock with shit that would give Marie Kondo a cardiac infarction. I don’t know who makes and collects porcelain dolls, but can I just be clear? Porcelain dolls are more terrifying than clowns. They’re also porcelain, so you can’t play with them. Stop being weird and just buy your kids a Barbie. After the terrifying children of the corn exhibit, it was onto the cake decorators. The same woman won every single year, and I don’t know why other budding cake artists even bothered. 

But the best was looking at the scones. I’ve had a fascination with scones for a very long time, and I really think that if you need two women to judge a scone-off, you could do worse than me and my Emotional Support Animal’s mum Hester Joseph. Hester Joseph is a sconnoisseur, and if you try to deviate and make scones in a muffin tin, or make them square, you won’t get any support from us. There are firm rules about scones, and I’ve done a lot of research into where you can get good scones. You can’t. Bake them yourself; it’s the only way. If you want disappointment go out and order one, they usually crumble into dust, are served with marge, don’t have nearly enough cream, and come with that weird grated cheese that is all melted together in a mess. Have some respect. 

My young self used to spend hours lingering over the glass display cases scrutinizing the scones. Before I’d read the judges’ comments, I could tell that Sheila had overdone done it on the baking powder or Neville had overworked the dough. I could tell Doris had gone rogue and used margarine instead of butter, and that Maureen had nailed it. I didn’t even need to shift my eyes left to the purple ribbon claiming Maureen Queen of Scones for the third year running. 

No matter what age you were, the Looping Star was the major showpiece. Sure the Enterprise, the Breakdancer, The Ship of Death, The Wall of “What The Fuck We’re All Going To Die,” The Swings of “Don’t look up at the rusty latches,” and the House of “Horrors” were all worth a go. But in the end, it was the devastating and sheer Russian Roulette of the Looping Star that made all of us queue up in delighted terror. I maintain that it is the most dangerous roller coaster in the known universe, and it was out of order for most of the show, so it really was a race to get on it. One year people were left dangling upside down from the loopy part, and not even that stopped hyperactive kids from gamboling up the metal stairs once the out-of-order sign was removed for the umpteenth time.

Where were our parents, you might ask? Well, as we learned later on in life, they were off getting pissed at the Foaming Tankard. As we grew up, our priorities changed. Sure we still went on the Looping Star, but not before we tried to sneak in a few Hunter’s Gold, Solanti’s Spices, or good old Black Labels from the well-protected beer tent. Some of us had connections, others relied on older siblings, and some used their powers of persuasion to get any kind of illegal booze past the gates. The trouble is nine times out of ten, someone’s mum or dad recognised you, and then the game was up. ‘Terry, I saw Jaqui and her mates trying to get into the Foaming Tankard.’ Shit. 

And then it was the era of “the big field” where we’d all congregate with a bottle of Mokador and a few Peter Stuyvesant Blues we’d knicked off some suspecting parent. Dressed in our washed-out grey outfits and Dr. Martens, we’d mosh to The Narrow, sing along to Just Jinger, Wonderboom, Sugardrive, and the Springbok Nude Girls, and lose our shit to Fokofpolisiekar. Later we traded our washed-out grey outfits for Coco Bay; some of us held onto our DMs, others opted for Turtles. We were always late for whatever parent drew the short straw and had to drag our teenage asses out of there, still yelling “Lonely Lonely Sunday Morning” at the top of our lungs. A few days later, pneumonia nearly always kicked in. Worth it. 

2021. Everything is so still. So quiet. I can still hear the creak of the turnstiles, the soft crunch of the hay underfoot. I can smell the frying onions and burgers from the Hilton Lion’s Stand, and those doughnuts stationed around almost every corner willing you to be tempted by their tiny hot bods. A crack from a child throwing a pop-pop onto the ground, a sobbing child who’d just dropped an ice cream, and in the distance, the thunderous roll of the Looping Star. Beckoning. 

I get to the Olympia Hall. It’s so quiet. No one is looking at the building built in 1930. People are transfixed by their phones, tapping away. I feel like I’m part of the cow parade, but none of us are mooing; we’re just being herded into the various areas. It’s efficient; it’s cold, the lights flicker. I hear the laugh of a porcelain doll’s ghost in the distance. But I don’t care. I’m as excited as I was to climb those damn metal stairs up to the Looping Star. As the vaccine jabs into my arm, I feel the wind rush on my face as I approach the loop. 

‘Next!’ shouts the nurse. 

And like that, it’s all over.

A lot of the time we make decisions based on what works for us in a particular moment. Sometimes we pull it off, sometimes we fuck up, and sometimes we fuck up spectacularly. 

What we’re left with are consequences. How we move forward is a decision. And before we proceed, let’s take “resilience” off the table, and file it with “the new normal”. Burn before reading. 

If you’re looking for “all the feels” and an America’s Got Talent big moment, you’ve come to the wrong place. There might be a smattering of kumbaya, but I’m holding off on the magic circle where we sit around and drum together.  

I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. My decision to move back to Hilton was supposed to be a temporary pit stop, but I’ve committed to a spinning bike and NP number plates. I also post on Hilton Chat and am a card-carrying member of The Hilton Rate Payers Association, a security initiative, and a blasted WhatsApp group that up until recently served the purpose of informing me about where Hilton’s dogs are at. Things have escalated spectacularly from there. Why just a few months ago my mother and I walked into the Anew Hilton Hotel to attend a security meeting. How the world has changed. Back in the day we would walk in to start a shift (both of us), play a gig (my mum), pull a sickie from school (me). Mum and I were the types who looked in on community capers, we never joined in. I mean you’d battle to coax us to a book club (and there are books and wine there). 

Being back on our old stomping ground for the first time since my father sold it in 2009 was surreal. What was more surreal was that two of Hilton’s biggest “non-joiners” were attending a community meeting – plus I even voiced an opinion. Next thing you know we’ll be championing a bid to get the Hilton Lion’s Fair started up again. This on top of rumours that I’m planning to run for mayor might just tip the locals over the edge. Fear not, as much as I’d love to add years to the lives of Craig Miller and Pam Passmore, I’m afraid I’m just not that altruistic. But I am that local. It’s time to face the facts.  

I’m all about the facts. So much so that my job involves reading a lot of books. Let’s all fasten our seatbelts for a flagrant brag festival. Since November I’ve read 140 self-help, self-improvement, mindfulness, dazzling science, history, and some real roll your eyes out of your head level shit. I’m now the person people avoid at parties. Luckily we aren’t partying so my self-esteem is A-OK. Anyway the other day I was comforted while reading that the universe is chaos, and once we accept that and stop trying to impose order on it, we’ll be a lot happier. I find comfort in this because I’m not one who believes in “thoughts and prayers” and the power of a Facebook profile picture filter. Shit is whack. Is 42 even the meaning of life? And if it’s not, where do we begin? Thankfully I’m not here to give you meaning. I ain’t no Deepak Chopra. 

What I will tell you is this. Stories are everything. 

So here’s my voice from the chaos, and what I’ve observed. But before we begin I’ll let you in on a secret, all writers are basically lurkers who verge on stalking. A good story starts with what you know, and then you add in a sprinkling (a generous one) of exaggeration. 

Everyone will have their stories from the past week. Here’s mine. If you don’t like it, then write your own. I can’t pretend I’m not white, not privileged, and don’t live in Hilton. I will make one promise… there will be no virtue signaling, we’ve seen enough of that for one lifetime. “Hashtag doing my bit.”

It all began when Facebook and our local-security-slash-lost-dog WhatsApp group alerted me to the potential threat of JZ, which then escalated to about 25 trucks blazing on the N3. It didn’t bode well, but sadly South Africans are used to burning trucks. Some of us might smash an Urbanol or a homeopathic alternative, but for the most part, it’s business as usual. ‘Yoh, that’s a bit kak!’ 

Things went from kak to worse. Not since those two planes crashed into the twin towers have I felt the same levels of ‘What in the actual fuckshow is this new level of fuckshow?!’ We’ve seen looting, we’ve seen burning, but when I saw Brookside Mall get completely torched the tectonic plates shifted. These dudes meant business. You know what happened next, you’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the news. 

Shit escalated to full-on Oliver Stone, Game of Thrones, and let’s chuck in some Battle of Helm’s Deep cos it was shit cold and dark. 

I know people who were in the thick of it. In the thick of it, I was not. Was I scared shitless? Absolutely. The thing with fear is we fear the unknown, and what was happening was hella unknown. Howick and the greater Pmb were burning, and white okes in white bakkies were mobilising. I’m not gonna lie, I felt uncomfortable as hell. And then I felt grateful as hell. And then I felt conflicted because white bakkies are akin to K-Way puffer jackets and they make me antsy. Look, every community has a different story. We’ve all seen the videos of white vigilante mobs in certain areas going Full Metal Jacket and making shit awful decisions based on their casual, formal, or smart casual racism leanings. It’s not OK. But I’m not here to tell their stories.

So back to my story. Our local station commander “Captain He-Man” is a boss because he’s a man with a plan. And although women, and in some instances mice, make plans too, in this case, it’s Captain He-Man who needs a proverbial Bells or a Bar One, or an all open access to a car bar. Captain He-Man was lank firm with the okes in the white bakkies, and told them categorically that they needed to have their shit well and truly together. They weren’t to land their asses on Facebook viral for being a bunch of gung-ho clowns. They were to be the opposite of clown town. I’m assuming it went well because I saw a bagpiper on my newsfeed, and that’s a sign that the Matrix is still intact. Wait have I got that right?

Anyway moving on. When the WhatsApp came through that the Sweetwaters Community were joining the men in white bakkies, the SAPS, the various armed response chapters, and the bloody taxi drivers (“What?!”) it was beyond kiff. It was so kiff that we all let out a collective sigh of relief. The not so excellent part was the sigh brought with it a real humdinger of a cold front with an epic frost. This would have been OK except the prudent among us were heeding the warning to not use any bloody electricity because ‘If we blow a load, no one will hear our screams.’ Not even the loudest Negative Nancy or Hurrumphing Harold on Hilton Chat would be able to get the attention of Pam and Craig (the managers).

So on the danger front shit was secure. Other places were not so lucky. Big shout out to all the seriously kiff okes who stood sentinel and froze, while we moaned about how cold it was from under our blankies. We avoided the chaos because some people chose not to risk it, and others chose to protect the shit out of it. Sometimes the dice rolls in a different way.  

But then I received a message from a top human who we’ll call Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. She’s not a doctor, but I’m not a “real” doctor either so who’s counting? The WhatsApp told me that the medicine situation was a few million points up from a grade-A shituation. Warehouses and pharmacies were the new Tops, and I can’t even fathom what a monumental bunch of supreme asshats would attack medicine. Not just knicking a few Grand-Pa for the Tops looting hangover, no, burning and looting wholesalers and all but completely destroying the supply chain. That was a decision that I’m not going to kumbaya in a hurry. 

So it was that for two days I helped Dr. Quinn and her team, and ferried medicine to the Police Station for the mostly-grateful Hilton residents in need of meds. One woman told me ‘This isn’t how anyone should be running a business,’ and I wondered if the taxidermy collection from the KwaZulu-Natal Museum was marching up Old Howick Road or if someone had magically rolled a five or an eight, or whatever one needs to get the hell out of Jumanji.

And now here we are… the white bakkies have dispersed, K-Way Puffer jackets have migrated back to the Quarry, and local hero Jono Hornby is once again in his natural habitat being awesome. If you want to contribute to his awesome, please check out the Sweetwaters Food Relief Project Facebook page. There are other people in other circles doing phenomenal things. Tell your stories. Hell, I’ll tell them for you if you can tolerate my propensity for throwing in a few f-bombs. 

So what did we learn? Well, I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for myself. I learned that we’re better when we get involved in other people’s stories. Be a verb and do cool shit. Be an adjective and make something extraordinary. Be a noun and add value. Hell, be a comma or full stop and offer someone a breath when they need it.  

And I didn’t promise to not use my favourite saying. And it’s never been so important. If you can, read the book. 

‘If this is your land, where are your stories?’ (J. Edward Chamberlain)       

Be a part of the story. It’s all we leave behind.

Growing up in South Africa in the nineties, there were a few things that every single child had in common. Everyone wanted a strange man dressed in a Simba costume to come into their classroom, yell “surprise”, and give away free bags of chips. I am addicted to crisps, sorry chips, so I would be more than happy to suffer an over-zealous and awkward encounter with a dweeb in a Simba outfit, provided he was armed with crinkle cut salt and vinegar. Every child wanted to shout “Forward ford-ford-ford ford! Grab! Grab!” down his/her landline telephone, in order to win a Sonic the Hedgehog hamper; and perhaps even the star prize of a Sega Mega Drive. Fuck me! That was a helluva upgrade from the generic TV game console we had (red and white made in China- you know the one) if we were lucky. And then, the absolute motherload, every single child had the dream of getting selected to play the “Reggie’s Rush”. We were obsessed with the dream, we strategised during school breaks, we imagined the sheer rush… We all had our “If I got chosen I’d…” narratives.  

The Reggie’s Rush… it echoes in our eternities…

The game where you got an empty trolley and 30 seconds to dash through the aisles of Reggie’s toy store and grab whatever you could. Beautiful simplicity. Perfection.    

I remember filling out so many damn entry forms in the hope of getting selected. Actually this isn’t strictly true. I filled out entry forms with my brother’s name, because Nick and I had an agreement due to the fact that I am physically very “remedial”, and he was Sonic the Hedgehog in human form. To put you in the picture, the whole school clapped when I made it into the long jump pit (once, fluke). I was lapped so many times during a school running event that a kind teacher told me I could stop running because the race was very much over and I was at risk of being lapped by tumbleweed, and then there was the running around hurdles caper of 1995. I was in Std 5, using the junior hurdles (shame), and I was so terrified that I just ran around them instead of going over them. Reggie’s Rush material I am not.

So, Jaqui Hiltermann was clearly not a candidate for the high-octane world of panic dashing. And besides which, if I was chosen I would bring so much shame on the rich heritage of the game. K-TV Kids everywhere would marvel at my lacklustre performance, salivired Coco Pops would cling to television screens- remnants of abuse, “This girl is rubbish she’s miles away from the game consoles!”, “She can’t even run! What is she doing?!”, “Look how carefully she’s placing those Barbie’s into her trolley… What a dork!” Not even Reggie the Clown would smile. And, what if he told Simba I’m a lost cause? Reggie’s Rush was clearly not a game for me, but that didn’t stop me from having hours of planning and strategy sessions with my brother.

Nick agreed that he would add to my Barbie collection if he got selected, but only after he’d got a Sega Mega Drive and all the games he could foist into the trolley. The Reggie’s Rush brought my brother and I closer together, we had a shared dream, a shared goal. It was the glue that stuck us together and avoided him doing Judo on me and making me eat crisps out of an ashtray. Nick was never selected for Reggie’s Rush. But the dream still lingers.

And then today, day 67 of National Lockdown, I had my Reggie’s Rush moment. Well sort of.

Yesterday was a hectic day in our household. The last day of “no booze sales” in Mzansi. My folks and I are twitchy eyed when thirsty, and anticipation is something we’re all a bit antsy about. For the past week I’ve resorted to drinking back-of-the-cupboard rum, lime, and soda, and having an after-dinner port (heavy pour) is not uncommon, neither is a 2am headache for that matter. Port. Fuck me. That shit leaves a mark (read blinding headache). Stocks were running perilously low at our abode, and we knew the Empire Could Strike Back and announce an about-turn on booze sales. The three of us had a strategy meeting and decided we needed to strike while the Iron Lady was cool- Margaret Thatcher took milk away from kids, NDZ took alcohol from an entire nation… we may need to level her up to Tungsten. Anyway, it was decided the divide and conquer approach was the way to go. My mother and I would hit the shopping centre that pensioners go to, it was a bold move but with ankle protection we might come out unscathed. My stepdad agreed to stick local and try stealthy. A three-pronged attack… the goal was to buy enough wine to satiate a thirsty Lannister, whisky, and “forward ford-ford-grab emergency alcohol” (not port)!

Stockpiling is not the answer until it is. I’m a worrier and a forward thinker… and I saw how those damn Cape Town joggers nearly screwed the pooch for everyone. South Africans are not known for their good decision making while under the influence. In fact South Africans are bad bad dogs when it comes to drinking. And I use dogs as an analogy because if you put food in front of a Labrador it’s gone like a scone. Every South African is a bad dog. Don’t kid yourself. The feeling in our kennel was that NDZ could smack us on the noses and take away our kibbles… so we’d better make a plan. We were not going to wait for the potential about-turn. We were going to arrive before 9am. We agreed to be those people. We were metaphorical Cape Town joggers.

I didn’t sleep last night. At 3am I got a bad case of the “ports”, but mostly I got a sense of the rush. I wished more than anything my brother was here to take up the mantle, but I realized that today would be my day to shine. This was my Reggie’s Rush moment, my “Beveragie’s Rush” debut. I didn’t hit snooze this morning. I bolted out of bed, put on my New Balance, and hit the kitchen for a settling cup of tea. My heart was racing.

When we got to the shopping centre I joined the rebels without a cause outside of Picardi Rebel. I was number 10 in the queue. My trolley was empty. There were several pensioners ahead of me, for obvious reasons. Pensioners strike at dawn. The pensioner behind me didn’t have a trolley, my ankles were safe. For now. I surveyed the shop windows and began strategising. As with Reggie’s Rush all the good shit is towards the back of the store or on the top shelves… there was a lot of sherry and Advocaat… Not for long. That stuff is like catnip to the Norman’s and Edna’s of the world. A grey haired lady in front of me exclaimed, “This could be the most exciting day South Africa has ever seen!” “Extraordinary”, I thought. This little old lady has lived through some pretty dark shit… but this is her Reggie’s Rush moment too, she was fuelled by the promise of Monis Pale Dry. “I’m going to buy as much as my pension will get me!” from the chap behind me, with the grey tracksuit and Makro takkies. I started to get frightened… Have these old fuckers been prepping by watching YouTube clips of Reggie’s Rush in anticipation? Am I out of my depths?

And then after 23 minutes of queuing, group 4, my group, were allowed into the store. We’d seen the 9 before us leave, some armed with a simple bottle and others heaving trolleys with the last of their pension fund…

I was up… “Jaqui Hiltermann are you ready?! 3. 2. 1…GO!”

What a fucking rush.

According to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, there are five stages of grief- Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. In South Africa there are currently eight stages of loadshedding, seven deadly sins (which Bheki Cele seems to be reading off), and now five stages of lockdown. South Africans are going to need a helluva App to deal with all of these stages (Pro Tip App Developers). Shit is about to get real. Again. Remember when we used to complain about water shedding and loadshedding? Fuck those were the good old days. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the threat of Day Zero. I remember thinking that was rock bottom. And I’ve said it before, my mum is right, “Things can ALWAYS get worse”.  

1. Denial:

You’ll notice I’ve been AWOL, MIA, “gone like a scone”. Over the past week or so, it dawned on me that I was hitting the ground running, and I hadn’t really stopped to “check-in” with myself. From the 14^th March until just after the Easter weekend, I self-isolated and launched myself into work and was a one-woman writing machine. I was doing the positivity thing and it was working, but when I stopped working, I realised that I was kayaking down the ol’ river of Denial and it was choc-full of crocodiles and other hazards. Social media repulsed me, nothing was funny, the light went out, and the reality of how long this is going to be really started to take shape. I couldn’t write… because I was at Stage One of Grief, Stage Zero of loadshedding, and Stage Five of lockdown. And I knew that lockdown was going to continue for the forseable future, it wasn’t a surprise, but somehow I didn’t actually stare at it in the face. Denial has many shapes. It’s not always well-rounded.

I decided to shift my focus and not put pressure on my self-created need to document every single day. Some days and weeks are best forgotten. Some are best kept private. Some are so intimate that you want to keep them for the humans who are most special to you. But the guilt of not writing weighed heavily, and as more days passed the more I realised that I was in a slippery slope, and I got fucking angry with myself. In academia we have a mantra that we live by, ‘I should be writing’.

• Anger:

There is a lot to be angry about. I miss some people so much that I don’t know how I will survive until Level Two (lockdown level). I am angry at Bheki Cele for being an asshole with a vendetta and a hat game that is so strong it’s scented with musk ox. I am angry when I go onto social media and I see how stupid and petty people can be. I’m angry with people who argue with experts. I am angry with people who think that “they’re entitled to have their own opinion” when they’re informed by lunatics (Fun Fact: they’re not). But for a while I was most angry with myself. As the days ticked by and the writing dried up, I was fucking angry that I couldn’t write, that I didn’t want to write, and that I was just incapable of looking at a blank page. I focused on putting emojis on dogs, putting together lecture content, and thinking. Thinking inevitably leads to manipulation, and manipulation is all about convincing yourself to do things. “Hello Spiral my old friend”, the widening gyre is upon us.

• Bargaining:

“Jaqui… you can either hoovie (hoover/vacuum) or stare at a blank page…” (Fun Fact: this was a stalemate). It’s amazing how bargaining works when there is only self-accountability. It’s amazing how many things fall off the table when you give yourself two really shit-kak options. The more shit activities you give yourself, the less you do. This is why people eat cake. And, writing is my favourite thing in the world, until it’s not. And when it’s not fun, it’s abusive. The bargaining was making me feel shit because I was stuck, and I started to hate the thing that brings me the most pleasure. Writing is supposed to make me happy.

• Depression:

An identity crisis is something that I’m well versed in. I have many personalities and they’re not always easy to reconcile. Writing allows me to straddle the borders of my personalities, for good or for bad. Ivan Vladislavic says it perfectly in his masterpiece, The Distance,

‘Then again, my brother’s need to be someone else never goes away. He becomes a writer. You can see the catastrophe coming down the pike.’

(Vladislavic: 2019, 73)

The pen is a sword, sometimes you have to fall on your sword for your artlessness. And sometimes you need to be fucking sad.  

• Acceptance:

Once I’d accepted that it was OK to feel like crap, and that no one else has any expectations of me (I’m hardly G.R.R. Fucking Martin- please finish your bloody book already!), I started to realise that I’m an idiot. This happens a lot. I don’t like to admit that I can be an idiot because it’s not good for my street cred. Anyway, I decided to do what my Emotional Support Animal (E.S.A) Bestie says, which is “focus on 1%”. My E.S.A picks up great advice, which is useful because I usually need it. Anyway, she reckons that the best way to live is to do everything 1% better than the previous day- so if you write 500 words on one day, write just a few more than that the next day. It applies to everything, and it’s been a game changer for me because I’m competitive and sometimes I want to push it to 10 or even 20%. Other days 1% is just fine.

So, I changed my focus, I handwrote letters, I photographed them, and I sent them to people I love. I’ll do more of this. I wrote lists, and I checked off things, which is satisfying as fuck. I accepted that lockdown has become a new set of stages, and that we’re not going anywhere. Our worlds are tiny, and sometimes there will be nothing to say, and that’s OK. Sometimes you won’t want to talk. Sometimes you’ll just want to listen. And sometimes you’ll want to scream into the fucking void. All the world’s a stage as we march towards the last scene of all… the scene that ends this strange eventful history*.

I woke up this morning with good intentions… I busted out Rosemary, I had fucking muesli for breakfast, I went to the shops to buy healthy and boring food… and I waited.

Today my niece was born… my perfect little Bat-Eared Fox aka “Foxy Cleobatra” and she is perfect. I’m overusing the word “perfect” because sometimes even I can’t find adequate descriptors. Today I had the best intentions of writing, and being the best version of myself… but eventually I gave in and said “fuck it” because all I can think about is how I’m here… and everyone else is there. We’re all bloody here when we should be there. And there is some nebulous place… a Narnia of sorts… so we’ll have to wait to get there. We’ll have to wait. So for now we all “cheers” and clink glasses on video chat and it makes us feel connected for a while, we smile and we’re happy but we’re neither here nor there. Bloody hell this is a helluva way to come into the world my little Bat Eared Fox. We’re not in Kansas anymore. We cling to the photos and send voicenotes.

So I opened up a bottle of French champagne because I want my niece to know, that on her born day, her aunty celebrated the shit out of the day… And once I post this I’m running upstairs and I’m going to put on red lipstick, a dress, and my Jimmy Choos… I’m going to play music (loudly)… and I’m going to party in my lounge… Because Aunty Jackals is going to remember this crazy time when her niece was born and we were all separated… and all we could do was celebrate the here and the now…

What we do in life echoes in eternity. Today I am a woman of few words. It won’t last long. Enjoy the silence. Hug your family.

And it’s nice to know that my increasing waistline and fatty liver aren’t all in vain. I see all of the valiant efforts that so many others are doing to show this virus who’s boss. And I’m astonished. And boy-oh-boy does it galvanise me to settle in for another episode of Money Heist, and stare blankly at my phone for the next 17 hours.

I mean take Sven and Laura for example. Sven recently posted Instagram pics of their self-isolation, and I realized that I might need to ramp up my efforts. Sven and Laura are taking their self-isolation so seriously that they flew across country to a couple’s retreat on a game farm. And to really drum the message home Sven captioned the snap, “this is how to self-isolate… bliss” with the hashtags #Covid2020 #CoronaVirus #SelfIsolation #DoingOurBit #FlattenTheCurve. And judging from the comments of “guyz I’m sooooo jealous”, others wish that they could be more like this power couple. Guys you’re doing great. Keep it up!

And then there’s Gavin and Gemma. Gemma takes mental health very seriously. So in a bid to spread cheer amongst her besties, she and Gavin have rented a lovely AirBnb to share with 4 other couples for a long weekend. Gemma’s WhatsApp group, “Hey MaCoronas!” really got the proverbial chuckles going, and hell did Clive not throw some real zingers into the meme trough?! That Clive really knows how to hunt down memes- you should see the one about the Chinese guy and the bat- it’s hilarious! Anyway, despite the fact that Gavin is a pharmacist, and he’s around sick people all day, he’s assured the group that there’s nothing to worry about in terms of his Covid status. And when Gavin says, “don’t worry guys”, everyone believes him, because men with such great hair and chiseled features don’t lie. Kate is concerned though because two of her work colleagues have just come back from Europe and they’re awaiting test results. Luckily Kate’s dissuaded from leaving the group because Gavin assures her that she’s A-OK, and Gemma chimes in that she simply can’t live without Kate’s signature potato bake, and the weekend won’t be the same without her. That’s settled then, Kate and her potato bake are in! As texts about who’s bringing the brie rain down upon the group, Gemma knows she’s done a good thing, and her heart swells with pride. Friends should stick together in hard times, and there is no way that any of her friends have Corona anyway.

And elsewhere, Jasmine is using her mommy powers to impact on her community. Jasmine’s read up on herd immunity, so she’s started a Facebook Group called “Herd it through the Grapevine”. Jasmine has such a way with words. Jasmine’s inviting local area moms to host “Corona Parties”, reminiscent of Chicken Pox parties, and she’s recommended some great close contact games to add fun to the fiesta. Jasmine suggests pass the parcel because she’s read that the virus can live on paper for up to a week. Other fun games and activities include musical chairs, duck duck goose, bobbing for apples, and pin the respirator on the Corona patient. And sure, not everyone is on board with Jasmine’s brilliance, but there is always one particular group who try to take the wind out of your sails. But do you know what Jasmine says to those people? “Let’s just agree to disagree…” Oooo mic drop Jasmine. You fucking nailed it!

Finally, there’s Ben and Sharon who have decided that they really need a break from it all. It’s been a helluva year for Sharon because she finally quit her job in order to focus on her online shop, and what’s more, she’s just had to let their domestic worker go because things are a bit tight at the moment. Sharon feels desperate for their darling Lydia and she just can’t bear to think about it anymore. Sharon’s done everything that she can for Lydia by imploring her Facebook networks to help out, but it’s time that she starts thinking about herself for a change. That’s why they’re off to Zanzibar for a well needed break. I applaud Ben and Sharon for not letting a global pandemic that killed nearly 800 people in one day affect their plans to have a nice holiday. They really can offer us all a lesson on Stoic Pragmatism.        

It really is so nice to know that we’re all in this together and that each and every one of us are really doing everything that we can to flatten the curve. We’ve got this guys! And just FYI, if anyone needs any extra toilet paper, I’ve got a whole garage full. Because you never know when a member of the community will need me to generously donate an extra roll!

This has been the unwitting soundtrack to this week… a beautiful coincidence brought upon by the shuffle function on my battered and bruised iPod. It’s not dark yet… but it’s fucking close. It feels as if we’re all raging, raging against the machine, the man, and against the dying of the light.   

But with all things, there’s strength in the collective- the fact that we’re all raging, we’re all angry, we’re all hurting. We’re all in this together. Yesterday, as UCT gathered, there was immense comfort in occupying a space with others, and it proved that these are dark and scary times, but we are not alone. It galvanised me, because I’m predisposed to overthinking and cynicism… and at times like this it’s even more difficult not to hate people and humanity.

And then I see yet another manifestation of the hashtag #AmINext, redolent of #MeToo, and I actively try not to roll my eyes back into my head. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and I need to pause, take a breath, because I know that we’re occupying a space where women* are scared shitless. We’re all watching this horror movie together… except in this scenario there’s no dimbo ignoring the non-diegetic soundtrack and going gangbusters down the stairs towards the eerie basement. Nor is she shouting “Billy!” “Billy!” “Is there anybody there?” as she enters the abandoned locker room. In this scenario the eerie basement is a routinous fucking post office… This is public space. Public space next to a police station. This is broad daylight. This is everywhere.  

So I get it. It’s difficult not to make this shituation about the “me”. It’s hard not to ask “am I next”? It’s really fucking hard. But we need to remember that this is first and foremost about Uyinene Mrwetyana, and the scores of women and children who have died at the hands of men, and only then is it about us. It’s not asking “Am I next”? It’s asking who is next and what can we do to stop it? Because the power of a woman is in her ability to forge community… women are communities of practice. Women do kin work– community is in our collective DNA. This makes us powerful. And asking “am I next” dilutes the message, it isolates us from the group… and women, we need each other.

But surely, as women, this isn’t our problem? We’re not the problem right? And why do I, sorry we, as women, have to take responsibility for the actions of men…? This is not us… this is them…

Well sorry bitches this is us… and it’s them. And we can all do more.

Graca Machel delivered oratorical fireworks at Uyinene’s memorialising gathering on UCT upper campus yesterday. Graca Machel is a woman that I can really get behind… she’s angry, but there’s no populism… there’s no call for bringing back the death penalty.

Instead Machel reads the crowd, and offers a pragmatic measured approach. She’s angry, she’s raging, she’s sad, but she’s behaving like a woman with a solution. Cue the hallelujah bats**. Machel knows her audience and she asks us all to look within our academic disciplines to solve the crisis. She addresses us as a collective of minds… and she lays down the gauntlet. “We need to find out what’s wrong and broken within our society… Anthropologists, Psychologists, Sociologists, Psychiatrists… everyone…”

Machel also advises all women to look after each other, and to support each other. I like this idea because it abandons the “me mindset”- we need to be concerned about all of us. We need to check in with each other, to show concern, to group together, to travel together, to band together. And sure it absolutely sucks that we have to move as a group… but maybe if we frame ourselves as an army it’ll be less “buddy system” and more “bad bitches on the move… fuck with us at your peril…” So gather your army bitches. Move with purpose. Safety is our new community of practice.

So, here’s where I take up the gauntlet, get onto my academic soapbox, and reflect on what my discipline can add to this conversation. And here’s the thing… as Graca Machel says, we need to scrutinise our own families and our own homes (to add credibility to this rant, my research area is the home). I research the home because, 1. I say “fuck you to masculine bias”, 2. the home is primarily the space that women occupy, and 3. because it’s a microcosm. You can learn a lot about the world by looking at homes. I’ve studied a variety of homes and let me tell you it’s not all fucking Woolies schnitzels and Peppa Pig lunchboxes… there’s some dark shit afoot. So humans look at your household structures… look at your families… look at your tribes. And affect change. Because change starts at home.

Secondly, power relations are usually “blackboxed” (I’ve shamelessly plugged my own paper here). And my research in Actor Network Theory shows that blackboxing happens through discourses (that circulate within networks). And language secures discourse. So be careful with your words and be careful of how you represent others through your language, because language is power.

So combining what I know about the home and discourse… here’s where we can all make a start. And you may ask “but what does this have to do with rape and murder?” Well here’s the thing, power manifests in different ways… and gender violence is about power. So we need to learn how to re-navigate how we frame ourselves as men and women. Because all cues lead to women being in positions of inferiority and power is a constant fucking struggle.

1. Women are not second class citizens… I don’t care what your religious text of choice is. Don’t use it to tell us we’re second class. We will fight you. We will rage. Women, if you try to justify being made a second class citizen through your religion then you need to interrogate this. And then you need to rage. We’ve got your back.
2. Respect the women in your homes. All of them. Your domestic worker is not your servant. Don’t tell her she’s “like” family… she either is family or she’s not. If she’s not- fine. But don’t pretend she is to absolve you of guilt. Raise your children to participate in the household chores… it’s not up to a woman to “do everything” for them.
3. In terms of “women’s work”, in Africa housework used to be considered “men’s work”… so men, be fucking grateful that this discourse has shifted… and learn to use the fucking washing machine.
4. Examine your own household power structures. Usually this is dependent on breadwinner status because money is power too… This is where you need to communicate with your children, each other, your peers, etc. because normativity is learnt… and just because he’s bringing home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative doesn’t mean he contributes more. And FYI the man is not the head of the household… unless he’s a single parent.
5. Women can bring home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative too… this doesn’t mean she “wears the pants”… she can wear the pants, skirt, hazmat suit, whatever the fuck she wants.
6. Parents and family members… communicate with your children, and each other, about why you made the choices you made… Parenting is about choice and sacrifice- it’s not about predetermined gender roles.
7. Women are not the sole providers of care work. Raise the men in your house to participate in care work. If he’s not sending his mother a card on her birthday, and if he makes it your job, realise it’s not your job. Guilt is a weapon and women feel it too damn much.
8. Every family has a “creepy uncle so-and-so”. If you don’t have one in your family look closer. Flagging up the “gropey pervy uncle” is not enough. Why do we think it’s OK to just give him the moniker “Creepy” and that absolves him? “Oh it’s OK that’s just what Creepy Uncle What’s His Face does at Christmas… it’s just his vibe”. Everyone in the family needs to tell Creepface to fuck off and stop being pervy and gropey. Everyone.
9. If there’s a man in your family who is abusive or shitty you have to call it. You will save a life.
10. Please refer to those of us who identify as women, as women… we are not girls. You’re happy calling your toddler a “little man” but I must be addressed as “my girly” or a “girl”. Fuck that.
11. Your boy toddler is not a little man. He is a boy and he has a lot to learn. Raise him to respect girls and women. There are no “my little woman” cruising around Top Tots. (Mums feel free to inbox me and tell me I’m overreacting and that I’m an angry feminist… But your son is not a little man. He is a boy child. He’s not bringing home any bacon/macon/vegan alternative.)
12. Television is not a passive medium. Discuss television content with your children and family members. Watch the hard stuff. Have difficult conversations. Discuss sex, violence, nudity, swearing, etc. with your children (within age appropriate reason obviously)… FYI- PG means parental guidance… i.e. you have a role to play. The television is not a babysitter, it is a medium to engage with. Don’t blame it for your children’s kak behaviour (or violence).
    
13. Just because he looks tidy in his uniform and addresses you as “maam” does not make him a lovely polite young man. Look closer.
14. Just because she looks tidy in her uniform and seems like a lovely young lady, doesn’t mean she’s a lady. Look closer.
15. Use the term “lady” with caution. I am not a lady I am a fucking woman. When (gentle)men start behaving more gently I might decide to too.
16. On that note, being polite is awesome and great… and we could all be a lot less dickish. But don’t ever feel guilted into politeness… “I went along with it because I didn’t want to come across as rude”. Never feel like you have to be polite to men… you don’t have to do what you’re told… you don’t have to follow them into the back room. You can refuse them, you can leave. Don’t apologise.
17. And off topic, but because I’m here… teach every family member that the death penalty is not a solution. And if you’re confused about this just think about how many administrative errors you’ve dealt with in the past 6 months. Now imagine your incorrect water bill is someone’s life. And if my analogy is a problem for you then think about how many activists during apartheid were on death row for fighting against the government. It’s a fucking slippery slope and you can’t cherry pick with the law and say “we’ll only kill the real criminals”. Our criminal justice system is fucking broken… but sure add in the death penalty what could go wrong?  

And finally, 18. And this will appall the religious among you… stop with this virginity bullshit. Of course humans should be self-aware and critical about sex… as with everything else, but the virginity narrative needs to duck. I’ve discussed this in class and I’m appalled at how many women were taught (at school) that losing their virginity takes something away from them, that once it’s gone it’ll never return. Being pure is a highly prized commodity in women (as determined by men). Okes, when I’m looking for a shag let me tell you purity is nowhere near the agenda… so why should it be on yours?

Furthermore, girls are taught to hold onto their virginity as long as they possibly can (because hellfire, brimstone, dirty slutbags, no man will want you, you should wait until you’re married, etc. etc.) whereas the narrative around boys is that they should cash in their v-cards as soon as possible. So given that the population is pretty much 50/50 what could go wrong? I mean, on one hand you have 50% of the population (who have been framed as weak and subservient) being told to hold onto their virginity while the other 50% (who have been framed as stronger and dominant) are being told to lose their virginity as soon as possible. Seriously how has no one flagged this up as utter insanity? No wonder we have a fucking crisis.

So folks… it’s time to roll up your sleeves and do some housework.

*I have tackled this article from a very gender binary way… The LGBTQ community has a fucking hard time and suffers from a huge amount of violence, bigotry and assholery. My decision to take this focus is purely because this particular narrative is framed as men and women/children.

**A note on “hallelujah bats” as an agnostic/atheist/don’t do religion I use the bat emoji instead of the raising hands hallelujah emoji.

While Monkey was spreading his smoked snoek mousse on his rye bread with a plastic teaspoon, I was sipping away on my crisp wine. Crisp wine was crisp because of my fancy wine wand which looks disturbingly like a sex toy. A sex toy for wine as it were. The wine sex toy was a hit with passers-by who marveled at the fact that not only does the wand chill the wine BUT it has a stopper and pouring spout too…

31. White people love Yuppiechef.

Anyway after listening to Dave bang on about the magical properties of apple cider vinegar it was the turn of Gareth and Sarah to step up to the podium and receive an emergency phonecall from their au pair. It turns out young Arya had fallen off the jungle gym and had a suspected broken arm. Arya was obviously an ironic name.

Sarah was white madam cross because ‘how could they be so selfish…?’ ‘Why did kids have to play the fool?’ ‘Why couldn’t they just behave like they were told to?’ I was with Sarah… kids are real assholes.

Didn’t they know it was Cat Stevens?

Gareth, not being the recalcitrant type, morphed into super new age dad and began sweating and pacing… He’s obviously a Grey’s Anatomy dad cos he was using words like ‘STAT’ and ‘push 2 cc’s of epi’… OK that’s an exaggeration he just asked if Arya could move her arm.

Silence…

It was time to bring out the big guns and talk to the son… the au pair was clearly an idiot…

‘Tristan! Fetch the iPad STAT and get onto Facetime… you’re going to have to show me Arya’s arm…!’

I’m getting hella excited now thinking Grey’s Anatomy Gareth is going to talk Tristan through surgery using nothing but an iPad and and a ballpoint pen. Gareth takes a sip of his Merlot and mops his brow. Sarah is telling Beverley that she’s not letting her kids spoil this for her… this is the first time she’s been out the house for months. Gareth is now Facetiming Tristan and I’ve refilled my glass excited about Tristan going rogue on his first surgery. No such luck Arya can move her arm but she’s screaming like a real little asshole. ‘I think it’s just sprained’ says Gareth…

A few minutes later…
Gareth: ‘I’m going to have to go home and sort this out…’
Sarah: ‘Can’t we just wait until after the concert…?’
Gareth: ‘No Sarah what if it’s serious?’
Sarah: ‘I don’t think it’s serious… I mean she’s always hysterical… she cries over anything…’

Gareth abandons his post to make the long journey back to middle Constantia to sort out young Arya, and Sarah goes back to complaining about how kids can be a real buzzkill.

‘I do hope he makes it back in time for the concert’

(Originally posted on Facebook 16 November 2017)