My WhatsApp is a literal buzz with friends telling me, ‘you think that’s bad I’ve put on 2 dress sizes’, and ‘my gut luggage is the only thing I’m currently traveling with’. As some of you may be aware, I’ve had to start running, well let’s call it what it is, “jogging”. It’s the end of the fucking world guys.   

Luckily for us women, we have decades of glossies, which have primed us for this very moment. The moment where we look into our cupboards and sigh. Our “fat jeans” are now the “one day I’ll fit into those again” hopefuls. We hurry past mirrors, we close our eyes when we’re in our underwear… ‘Look at the bloody state of me!’ We envy the body we hated and despised a year ago.

Cue Cosmo, stage left, to bring us that silver lining we all desperately need. 26 Ways to Dress For Your Body Type. 13 Pairs of Jeans to Hide Those Problem Areas. 18 Swimsuits to Make You Beach Ready. 42 Ways to Disguise How Fat and Gross You Are. The advice is endless, but one thing’s for certain, my body type has a methodology that’s been proven to make me feel like I want any other body type than what I’ve been given in the genetic lottery. ‘I wish I had her body, then I could wear a pencil skirt.’

Did you know that there’s a skirt shape to suit any body type? Plus there’s proof nogal? 

Fuck me I love science. According to the fine folk at popsugar.com you can wear mini skirts if you’re petite. If you’re tall and lean (read skinny) then you can pull off a maxi skirt. If you’re curvy (but not fat) you can wear a pencil skirt. “Athletic” women shouldn’t wear skirts above the knee; presumably to hide all of the effort you spend doing lunges and squats. Google ‘skirts to suit my body type’ and you’ll be dazzled and amazed at how much rigorous research has been put into this.

And I’m not even joking… there’s also a handy guide on shoes to suit your body type. It’s nice to know that if you’re athletic you can add more femininity to your look (crucial), by donning a pair of Mary Janes or ballerina flats. 

I find such comfort in knowing that as a woman my body has been scrutinised to such an extent that I now have an idiot-proof manual on exactly what to wear, and what not to wear. It’s also nice to know that when I decide to put my pear-shaped bod into a pencil skirt there will be some Cosmo-wielding fashion police(wo)man to give me a jolly good shaming. ‘Christ alive look at that Hiltermann woman, she clearly didn’t get the December issue… Look at the state of her fat arse in those flipflops!’

Doesn’t it seem such a shame that men are largely exempt from such close scrutiny? Isn’t it such a pity that men don’t get the benefit of such exhaustive fashion manuals? 

So, in my bid to close the gender gap… ahem… ‘Men do you want to dress for your body type?’

If your body type is “Businessman” then suits and ties are recommended. However, if you have more of a “Casual Businessman” body type then you can always remove the tie and opt for a lighter suit colour. And great news for those men who are “Athletic”. If you’re athletic you can wear active wear, or you can wear more general clothing to accentuate the fact that you have the perfect body. Every cut of gentlemen’s clothing fits the athletic bod perfectly, and you can marvel at how everything down to your basic flipflops looks fucking magnificent. And trust me, you won’t need to add a flourish of anything feminine to soften your hyper-masculine athletic beastly physique. And remember, everything above the knees where possible, you didn’t focus on leg day for nothing.

Not to worry “Geeks and Nerds”, skinny jeans fit any male body type, provided you have a background in IT or have some idea of basic coding. And not to be outdone, if you have a trust fund you’re going to look great in salmon, even if you have the complexion of a Christmas gammon. Jeans to suit your body type? Well if you’re a size 34 buy anything in size 34 and you’re good to go. As a side note, there is one faux pas and that’s to avoid the divorce-dad jeans, unless you’re a dad and divorced.

Men with a chunky wallet should accentuate this with conversation about Bitcoin. And don’t think I haven’t forgotten about swimwear. In this month’s issue, there’s a double-page spread on finding the best swimming costume for your body. For men wanting a bathing suit that dries quickly, synthetic fibres are your best bet. Board shorts are great because they have velcro and nylon laces to secure the garment. Speedos are usually made out of spandex. And finally, swimsuit briefs are designed to be aerodynamic. Armed with this wealth of knowledge I’ll bet you’ll find the perfect costume to maximise your beach confidence.

So, isn’t it about time you Lockdown your Body Type.

There are many television shows, particularly of the BBC ilk, about abandoning the “rat race”, and living a more simple and wholesome life. Why not Escape to the Country (2002-present), where you sell your London studio and embark on a new life in Dorset, surrounded by lush greenery and mooing? Or for those who are less erudite about country living, you can try your hand at The Good Life (1975), and erect a chicken hutch on your handkerchief suburban garden?

I don’t know where I am in the Matrix, but I feel like I’ve accidentally landed in a terrible hybrid BBC television show, I’m Not A Celebrity, But Please Get Me Out of Here Anyway (forthcoming). Here’s the thing, I left Cape Town at the beginning of Lockdown, not to live the simple life, but simply because I like the company of my parents, and they were on the verge of getting scurvy. Armed with a bag of oranges, some stowaway wine (look away Bheki Cele), and these newfangled vegetables, I arrived back in my home town of Hilton.

Here marks a critical juncture in our story. Did you notice how I referred to Hilton as my home town? Hilton is a town. I understand that this will be a heartbreaking revelation for many of you, but you can’t argue with the facts. And here, let’s quickly segue to my favourite Factition (I made that word up) Hans Rosling. Hans Rosling was all about facts; he even wrote a book about them, called Factfulness, which you should read immediately. Rosling dedicated his life to “measuring ignorance systematically”, so I think we should all give him the respect he deserves and not revert back to the pandemic of global ignorance, and the ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion, facts be damned!’ mindset. Here’s a not-so-fun fact for you, ‘did you know that chimpanzees answering tests at random know more about the world than humans do?’ 

The problem is most of us are unable to distinguish between thinking and feeling. And let’s link this back to my original point about Hilton being a town. Many of you may feel very differently to me, and you may feel that Hilton is a charming and incomparable village. You may feel that it’s a village because you hear people yammering on about lanes, country-living, popping into town (Pietermaritzburg), popping to the village (The Quarry) for a scone, and you might even read material on Village Chat. Sadly these sentiments smack of a bygone era, one which I happen to remember well. 

I grew up going to The Hilton Tearoom on a Sunday, and it was the only place open. I remember when Dave Hansmeyer had his butchery next to the Spar. I observed my mother purchasing Butterick patterns from Hilton Drapers, not buying fruit from The Fruit Basket, and perusing VHS tapes at Hilton Video. And remember when Upper Milestone was the vet, and when The Quarry was an actual quarry? The only survivor of the Olde Worlde Hilton is Kubela Stores, and that brings me lasting and infinite joy. In short, Hilton was a village because it was small.

Keeping up the idea that Hilton is a village is sadly exclusionary. While we should hang on to vestiges of charm and loveliness, the fact remains that Hilton’s borders extend beyond ideas of what is local. In fact, a precursory Google search and landing on the academically recognised Wikipedia tells us that ‘Hilton is a small town (now incorporated into the town of Howick to the North West) that lies on the brow of the escarpment above Pietermaritzburg in KwaZulu-Natal South Africa’. I’m as shocked as you are. Is Howick in charge of us, and why didn’t we incorporate them? Were we colonised by Howick? I dare say I shall have to write a letter to The Natal Witness to complain. OK, OK, you got me. I used Wikipedia as a source, and that’s just sloppy factfulness. So let’s look at the defining factors of a town and a village. A village is defined as a small community (less than 2500 people) in a rural area, and a town is relatively well-populated, has fixed boundaries, and has a local government. Town 1: Village 0.  

So, while many of you may feel that Hilton is a village because it’s been discursively loaded with its own unique brand of jargon, it is, in fact, a town. So now that I’ve set up some extraordinary context, backed up with some lovely facts, let’s go for the jugular. 

It’s come to my attention that Lockdown has done something very peculiar to some of you. Maybe it was the booze ban, maybe it was the term “webinar”, maybe it was homeschooling, maybe it was the frustration of seeing your colleague working from bed and being told for the umpteenth time that he was on mute? It appears that some existential crises have been afoot, and I blame the banana bread fiasco. You see, it starts with banana bread, and then it ends up with a fucking rooster. Pre-lockdown we’d all watch those lonely brown bananas languish in the fruit bowl, and we’d utter that hopeful phrase, ‘I should really make banana bread with those’. Every trip to the kettle would layer on more guilt about the increasingly blackening bananas, until the stench of banana and guilt led them to their inevitable doom of the dustbin. Lockdown gave us no excuses, it really was the time for pineapples and bananas to shine. People could not wait for bananas to rot fast enough or for pineapples to ferment and fizz. It was this frenzy of rotting and fermentation that I believe led to the sourdough and Kimchi caper. 

But where do you get the cabbage for your Kimchi? Well Shirley, you grow it yourself. Next thing Shirley and Brian (who have never been near Korea, and nor will they) have been spurred on by their Urban Vegan daughter-in-law to embrace the health benefits of this culturally appropriated foodstuff. Monday rolls around, and Winston (not his real name obviously) has been micromanaged by Shirley and Brian and erects netting for the new vegetable patch. There’s also a compost heap that Brian tells all his friends is ‘coming up a treat’. Shirley and Brian are so delighted that they’ve been able to bring the country back into their little corner of town living, that they almost forget the potholes and rolling blackouts. By reframing Hilton as a place in the country, potholes and blackouts add to the charm. It’s a veritable win-win.

The trouble is that I’m now in a position where homesteading has got completely out of control. Dare I say it, it’s completely fucking bonkers. People in this town are going gangbusters, and they’re egging (sorry) each other on. Enter from stage right, not one, but two roosters. And say what you will about hadedas, they’re more local than all of us put together. Roosters, on the other hand, are illegal. So it is, that my day is now punctuated by the piercing squawk of country living from dusk ’til dawn. Apparently this is OK though, because the roosters rise with the hadedas, and they provide a 12-hour soundtrack of country living, which is utterly delightful, and fucking charming, don’t you know? And, if you disagree well, ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion’.

Here’s the thing, my feelings towards roosters are absolutely my feelings, but more than that, it’s a simple fact that according to every by-law I can find, that roosters are absolutely not allowed, despite how well-behaved they are. All roosters in residential areas must pack up and head to the metaphorical or physical farm. Sayonara Assholes! It’s not my opinion; it’s a hard fact that keeping a rooster in a residential is illegal. So Townies, it’s time to get rid of your roosters, or you’ll be enjoying the most festive “Smells Like Teen Spirit” Christmas my Bose system can muster. But it’ll be great because if it’s synchronised with the hadedas and your fucking rooster, you won’t even notice it.

And Santa, I want drums for Christmas. And a recorder. In 2021 I’m upgrading this town to a city.

Six years ago, I broke my rule- ‘don’t read or engage in the comments section’. The shit hit the fan. I was called every name under the sun. My crime? I responded to an article listing the most expensive schools in the country. I said that just because these schools are the most expensive in the country, does not make them the best. And, after what has happened over the past few days, I feel the need to hurtle back into the metaphorical comments section and revisit my previous arguments. Call me whatever names you you like; I maintain my position.   

Previously I have used a favourite metaphor of mine to compare a lot of private schools to The Emperor’s New Clothes, and because I’m me, I have also added some of my trademark Jaqui Hiltermann facetious comments. I have used words such as “entitlement”, “privilege”, and “elitism”, which the Internet has not thanked me for. I wrote an article called “Private: Access Denied”, which doesn’t exist anymore because a few years ago my blog was hacked by Russians. (The blog ate my homework…) The article had a mixed response, which is a kind way of saying most people hated what I had to say. The pitchforks were out, and I was declared ‘bitter and twisted because I probably went to a government school’ (the Pitchforkers named a few appropriately “low-grade” schools for their trouble). As a full disclaimer, I attended one of the schools on the list, the Wykeham Collegiate, and over the years I have been pretty vocal about what I liked about it (I had a few exceptional teachers who inspired me beyond measure), and what I didn’t like about it- I have not gone back to the school since leaving in 2001 if that gives you any idea of ratios.  

I have learned a lot in the past six years; I am less gung-ho about flying into arguments without taking pause, I take time to sit with my opinions and thoughts, and I try to listen a lot more. Despite this, I absolutely maintain my position on private school education in this country. Expensive does not necessarily mean better. And education should be more focused on developing better, more critical, more socially aware human beings. And, as the current landscape is showing, we are failing miserably- this goes beyond the standard IEB or NSC curriculum.

I hope Tim Barry, a bit of a legend in the psychology circuit, doesn’t mind me quoting him. Tim Barry gave an excellent speech called “Differentiating a child-friendly school” where he said,

‘I suspect that if I do my job properly today, I shall be your most irritating speaker. This is because much of the literature about what makes for a child-friendly school stands in stark opposition to the rules of a consumerist market’.

Cue the Emperor and his new clothes. And Barry critiques this further by arguing that schools are in the market of offering a “differentiated position”, and how they do this is through the use of symbols. Jean Baudrillard (1981), a bit of a hero of mine, spoke about symbols and simulacra and how often symbols become more important than the reality you are working within. Tim Barry uses the example of a lawn to show how symbols operate in schools at the most basic level;

‘Although a well mown lawn has nothing to do with a child’s education, it is not hard to see how a parent may feel disgruntled if she is paying a premium for a differentiated service and the lawns have not been mown. It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children.’   

‘It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children’. Give Tim Barry a proverbial Bells (the ultimate symbol of “you’ve nailed it”). Private schools are littered with symbols and simulacra that become part of the fabric of tradition; and they are like glitter to a wet behind the ears Grade 7 learner with an obsession with Harry Potter books (OK, OK I’ve run away with creative licence, Harry Potter wasn’t a thing when I started high school).

I remember going on numerous high school “walk-throughs” when I was in Grade 7, and being completely seduced by red brick buildings, Hogwarts style boarding schools, modern buildings, comprehensive school uniforms, expansive lawns, sport’s fields and astroturfs only a few of the most sporty amongst us you would ever use, libraries that would be taken for granted, and fountains with pretty young school girls frolicking. Show me an all girl’s school where there isn’t a statue of a thin white chick with neat hair and a smiling face- often seen dancing amongst a spray of sparkling water. That statue becomes the ultimate symbol of the paragon of virtue at the all-girls private school. That’s the ideal that’s packaged to us as prospective new girls, usually along with a nice school motto; and a hefty price tag.

These symbols differentiate what is understood to be a “high-quality education”. And while all of these symbols, and resources, and opportunities do ultimately add value, they are not the education.  How many of us question the credentials of the teaching staff, the demographics of the board of governors, policies on integration and diversity, and the values that go outside of religious doctrine?  

So, one has to question what the fuck do we value when it comes to education in a South African context? And I think the past couple of days have really opened the lid on “differentiation” and intrinsic value. As an example, my mother was schooled in Swaziland, and many of her classmates were political exiles who weren’t allowed to be schooled in South Africa. Over the years I’ve been enraptured, while feeling incredibly envious, by the stories that my mother has told me about her high school experience. The education that she received, and the lessons on integration, solidarity, and unity that she was privileged to have had, especially under the backdrop of apartheid, is something that I know she values beyond words. As a school, Waterford Kamhlaba ran completely counter to the manicured perfection that we’ve come to value and expect, I present the school cricket “pavilion”.

So, what do many of these private schools value? From where I’m sitting they value religion, school uniform, and tradition. Oh, and the burgeoning use of technology in classrooms. Now before the technophiles amongst you start shouting and calling me a luddite, let me clarify… Technology is fucking fantastic and being digitally literate is pretty essential- trust me I’m not arguing that technology isn’t fucking excellent. But, when it comes to selecting schools, too much emphasis is placed on how much technology they’re throwing at the problem of basic teaching.  And, when it comes to learning and remembering content, there is absolutely no match for the simple art of good contextual teaching; and of course writing shit down. And do you know what’s even better than that? Engaging in critical debates, having difficult conversations, promoting empathy, and listening.

The past few days have really destabilised the homophily in these private school institutions. And it’s time we all start to look at the misdirected value that we place on fancy symbols, while glossing over and denying insidious narratives and discourses.

So fasten your seatbelts and maybe bust out those half time oranges.

Religion:

As a white woman it is not up to me to tell people what to believe, and how to believe. As an individual I don’t do religion in any shape or form, and I do think that it’s a political tool- ‘they came with their guns and their bibles’. However, religion has been used as an incredibly powerful weapon for marginalised groups and communities and this needs to be celebrated.

One of my main issues with religion as a symbol at a lot of (private) schools, it that it frequently smacks of patriarchy, and is used to support the status quo. Furthermore, if you suffer from mental illness, having the right amount of faith is enough to get your through the “dark times”. “A good Christian school” is peddled as a core value, and “good Christian values” become an excellent veil to hide behind; a great way to disguise or stamp out any nasties. When there are issues of racism, intolerance, bigotry, the bible is thrown at the problem. Those who have been victimised are told to ‘turn the other cheek’ and to ‘forgive’, because that is the “Christian way”.

Do you know what happens when people aren’t allowed to be angry? Yes you do. And that friends is why we’re in this hotbed of anger and resentment… and “Kumbaya!” is not going to solve this problem. The time of “praying this away” has gone. It’s time to allow anger and resentment to rise, and white people, this is a time to listen.

School Uniform:

School uniform is a pile of shit. School uniform for girls is the biggest pile of shit ever. Let me elaborate (I could literally write a book on the bullshit that is school uniform but here’s a fragment for your viewing displeasure)…

School boys get to dress like little “mini-me businessmen”. And sure, I’ve never seen a London currency trader wearing Bata Toughies, but at least the uniform represents some sort of version of pre-manhood… trousers, shirt, tie, blazer… An unstylish, and not exactly tailored version of the future men of the world, but it’s a close enough representation of the future careers these boys/men aspire to.  

School girls on the other hand are dressed in outfits that can only be described as ‘we decided on this uniform when women didn’t have careers, so we just “wung” it, and now it’s tradition so you’re stuck with it.’ I’ve never seen Angela Merkel in white ankle socks- in fact, I’ve never seen anyone other than toddlers and school girls in ankle socks. ‘This winter Jacinda Ardern steps out to deliver her address in a gymslip and girdle’. ‘Thuli Madonsela dazzles in her floral button up dress paired elegantly with a navy-blue V-Neck jumper and ample sunhat’. And, if you know anything about body shapes, as someone who has a fair amount of junk in her trunk, I can say with confidence that these uniforms are designed for the skinny white chick- the one who dances in the fountain without a care in the world. Anyone with a body shape that isn’t “fountain of youth”, looks shit in a school uniform. There’s gaping, there are hem issues, it’s just not a vibe… Usually you’ll see us wearing jumpers in the height of summer to disguise the numerous wardrobe malfunctions. So do you know what we do? We rebel.

Enter the school uniform checks. If staff interrogated why students fuck around with their uniforms they’d solve a big problem. If you don’t respect the school, you don’t respect the uniform. And why don’t you respect the school? Sure, some kids are just rebellious little assholes and like to push the boundaries, but I’m hazarding a guess here… lots of young women, are using their uniform, as with their hair, as a political symbol. ‘The uniform does not fit me!’

Listen.

Tradition

When I was at school, I was told that I’m a Wykeham Collegiate girl 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Talk about instilling a spirit of independence. Obviously, I took this doctrine to heart and really went out of my way to be a credit to the school- unfortunately, I was never caught drinking or smoking; my bad behaviour went completely unnoticed. For the most part I was not buying what the school was selling from an ideological perspective… I ignored the symbols, and focused on the subjects I enjoyed, the friends I had, and some of the excellent teachers who I loved. But there should have been more, Neil Postman says that ‘education creates a public’.

Before one of our “rite of passage” school balls we were given lessons on how to be ladies. I remember one of the fundamental lessons was the importance of moisturising one’s elbows- my eyes are a metaphor for Jane Austen rolling over in her grave. At this ball, one of the father’s pitched a fit because his daughter was paired with a black guy for one of the dances. The name of this ball was “the Women of the 90s Ball”. He wasn’t the only racist father… I heard one say, ‘my daughter really dodged a bullet’, when a black guy missed his daughter and went for one of the other girls beside her. I repeat, that was the year that we learnt that ‘one of the most important things is to have soft elbows and knees, because these are neglected areas of grooming’. One of the most important things.

So, as fifteen-sixteen year old girls (“women”) we were paraded out into society at our traditional Women of the 90s school ball, groomed and fully versed in the fox-trot, behind whispers of blatant racism. Tradition.

Tradition needs to be interrogated because it’s a wonderful symbol to hide behind. ‘We can’t change because we need to protect our traditions’. Traditional school values.

Tradition works for those in power.

The powerful need to listen.

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.

In another dazzling display of what the actual fuckery, it appears your average South African layman/woman isn’t the only person making his/her own homebrew. Minister of Trade and Industry, Ebrahim Patel, seems to have been smashing back the pineapple beer with gay abandon. Patel’s Moonshine is clearly made of stronger stuff than he is.

Tuesday was a momentous day for the common or garden South African shopper, with restrictions being lifted on certain retail arenas. Karens all over Mzansi were literally seen queuing up at Clicks to purchase box dye, to touch up their lockdown regrowth; anticipating these new avenues of retail pleasure to be unmasked. Which reminds me, does Cyril not understand that hairdressers are fucking essential? The oke is bald he clearly just doesn’t get what we’re going through- I mean a hubby with a box of Nutrisse is simply no replacement for Gavin. Anyway, as Karens touched up regrowth, and dusted off black K-Ways, Patel was putting together the Great South African Lockdown Winter Catalogue, fueled by his enigmatic brew.

Makro has nothing on this bad-boy.

It’s fucking great news for the babies and toddlers among us, because they’re going to be fashion forward as fuck at Level Four. All baby and toddler wear is up for grabs, sandals, wife-beaters, sun hats, bikinis, you name it they’ve got it.  Sadly, the older children won’t be able to match up to baby’s dynamism- but as Patrick Swayze says, “no one puts baby in the corner”. Children you’re in the naughty corner, and you’re only allowed outerwear, underwear, sleepwear, school wear (yes, get out of your pajamas and put those snappy school uniforms on), footwear and socks. You can’t go to school kids, but don’t let that stop you from sporting a fucking ravishing gymslip.

So where does that leave us adults? Well good news for those of us who are still finding our partners bangable during lockdown. Patel says we can purchase “all adult underwear”, which leads me to believe that after an evening on the Pineapple Power, Mrs Patel gets to put on her decorative smalls for a bit of Corona-kafoefeling. And hallelujah pregnant bitches, you can now give hubster back his trackie bums and get your ass into some truly gorgeous maternity wear- “of every kind”. The pregnant among us will literally be spoiled for choice.

This season, South Africans will mostly be wearing sensible shoes, as they sob hopelessly into their moonshine.

“Not all shoes are allowed”, and once again that’s excellent news for those of us with foot phobias. Chaps and Chapettes if pedicures aren’t allowed, I don’t see why open-toed footwear should be. I’m with Patel on this one… No one wants to see your lockdown feet Beverley, and FYI open-toe boots can fuck right off, and when they reach NDZ they can continue fucking right off some more. Germans are going to have a bit of a problem, but luckily for the socks and sandals brigade, I have it on good authority that they stockpile sandals and socks. Germans don’t fuck around.

The yoga mums will delight in the fact that they can pair yoga pants with a nice court shoe with a solid box heel. Knitwear is in! Dresses are in! Denim jeans and denim jackets?… Fuck yeah! And I really hope that Patel means that they have to be paired together a la Texas Tuxedo… because I for one will not abide by anyone not buying denim as a set.

Things then start to get a bit weird in the Patel Catalogue, because although there are no specifics about length, or fabric thickness, of pants and skirts, tops and T-shirts get the fluffy end of Patel’s lollipop. Pablo Escobaresque knitted short-sleeve tops have to be “displayed as worn under cardigans and knitwear”. Basically, if you’re a cartel member you need to be vibing a helluva twinset, and you may as well add a pearl necklace for extra effect. You’re worth it.

Short-sleeved T-shirts are for warmth only. Patel must be channeling his inner Kurt Cobain…

Leggings… fuck we’re in for another season of hot to trot camel-toe. But for those of you legging wearing monsters, momsters, and mobsters, you can pair them with some “crop bottoms” if you’re worried about your snatch. Crop bottoms? Take a bow Patel you’ve really channeled the power of the pineapple beer, you’re a demi-god. Actually, fuck that you’re the Emperor and you’re striking back. I’m strongly considering ordering what you’re having. Make it a double.

And headwear, bodysuits, legwarmers, and Jane Fonda videos are back on the menu too.

I’m having a throwback to my favourite Richard Scarry book. “Shop Til You Dop Okes”.

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*.

There’s an old Nesquik advert where you could blame shit on the bunny… it seems appropriate that I pull out my “blame it on the bunny card” for my writing hiatus.

It’s been a very strange past few days. I haven’t felt like writing, I’ve been in a bit of a funk, I’ve been distracted, my brain has been on lockdown. But the dust cleared today with what appeared to be a breath of very fresh air, my imagination is filling in the gaps again, and I’m finding that elusive patience that seems to plague me at every turn. I’m starting to see sense in my sensibility. I just hope that post-Corona life isn’t like Season 8 of Game of Thrones… Something we all look forward to for ages, and it turns into an almighty shitshow. Please don’t be shitshow.

Obviously, for most of us, it is completely unsurprising that Cyril extended the lockdown until what is ostensibly “Mayday Mayday!” Yet, the surprise levels of those “under-rock-dwellers” amongst us, those Tone Deaf Rangers, seemed quite extreme. Never underestimate the power of denial. People from within their comfortable houses have been wailing about the fact that, “We can’t possibly survive another two weeks of this!” and “My kids are going crazy!”

This confused me somewhat because from the “21 Day Joy of Motherhood Challenges” suddenly infiltrating my otherwise memetastic Facebook wall, mums and their offspring seem to be going gangbusters on the homefront. I’m seeing a veritable collage barrage of rose-tinted domestic scenes, and fuck me there’s a lot of poster- board, paints, magic markers, glitter, modelling clay, and other shit my mother never allowed me to have growing up. Not that my mother is mean, she just had a deep-seated fear of my brother doing another “extreme makeover” on his over-trusting sister. Arts and crafts were best kept for Mrs Arnison’s art class.

I bet Marie Kondo is having an embolism over all the new child-produced arts and craft shit people are bringing into their homes again. Chantal, you were making so much progress in the Kondo Method, and you were almost about to level up from Journeyman to Expert. But sure Chantal, I’ll bet that paper mache hippo little Bentley made is oozing joy all over your Wetherley’s sideboard. Well at least Marie Kondo will be in for another Netflix bonanza “Marie Kondo: Ridding your Life of the Shit your Kids Made During Lockdown”. Of course, no one will watch it because from what I can tell after lockdown no one is ever watching Netflix again. For at least a week.

It begs the question that maybe your kids are going crazy because you’re forcing them to do so many archaic arts and crafts projects when they’d rather be playing with their devices? Maybe you should stop micromanaging your kids Chantal? Bentley and Damien probably want one free day where they don’t have to be fodder for your “Mom Challenge” and bake fucking biscuits and make mosaic out of Granny’s broken tea set. And as suburbanites sit around their pools and play on their lawns it’s little wonder that they’re questioning whether or not they can survive another two weeks of this.

And yes, I’m being a glib asshole and in all honesty it’s great to know that people are connecting with their children and their families again. It’s great to know that we’re all more cognisant of what we take for granted, and that we’re all making long lists of ways we’re going to do better and be better. And sure, it’s bloody lovely to celebrate being a mom and enjoying doing activities with your kids. But this is not torture, and it’s not the end of the world. And, I promise you, your children are not going crazy and they will survive. Because, to be honest, pre-lockdown I didn’t exactly see hoards of kids playing outside and living the outdoor dream. From what I’ve seen most kids are glued to iPads whenever they’re out in public and you can argue with me if you’d like but it’s my job to notice these things. And I didn’t say all kids. I said most.

Meanwhile, in townships shacks are getting demolished, the two week lockdown means some people have the grand total of R0 to their name, and kids are going hungry.

But for now lockdown has been extended… Marie Kondo screams… somewhere a child cries… birds scatter… more clutter is coming…

This morning was reflective for a number of reasons… And, it was also a slow start because freshly laundered linen is a trap. While I was in my cocoon of loveliness, I found myself reflecting on grief and sadness because I’m noticing that April seems to be a challenging month for many of us. I think lockdown makes it even more challenging because we have so much more time to reflect and ponder, and for some there is a collective loneliness. And, even though I’m someone who tends to compartmentalise, sometimes there’s just no way to stop the montages. Those blurry erratic snapshots that reflect the faces of the people who are gone, occasionally shifting into sharp focus and bringing that beautiful sadness of memory. And I remember the opening lines to one of my favourite films, which is locked into my memory…

“He remembers those vanished years as though looking through a dusty window pane. The past was something that he could see but not touch, and everything else was blurred and indistinct.”
(In the Mood for Love: Wong Kar Wai)

Memory and stories are our real inheritance. We should hold onto them tightly, and share them generously. The genre of “everyday life” is underrated and, for many of us writers, we’re intimidated because we feel like we don’t have big enough stories to tell. We also feel as if we have to subscribe to certain styles in order to be successful. Why just the other day I saw a Facebook ad for “Masterclass: Dan Brown Teaches Writing Thrillers”. Now a couple of things went through my mind when I saw this. The first was, “Who the fuck wants to write like Dan Brown?”, and the second was “I know I’ve banned myself from reading the comments but this is too good an opportunity to pass up”. I have cripplingly low expectations, but for once I didn’t have buyers remorse. The comments are fucking gold.

So, no surprises, I won’t be signing up for Dan Brown’s Master Ass but it did get me thinking about my own writing, and writing in the time of Corona. And it’s so easy to write when one is combative and ranty, but when one is quiet and reflective the temptation is to want to be quiet and not to have to speak at all. But if I do that, then Day Fourteen goes by without record, and as my hero Ivan Vladislavic says, “You’re not a writer if you’re not writing”. And it’s because of these words that I thought about the distance between all of us right now, and how it feels to reflect on this nebulous and unknown future that we can’t see. It’s like we’re all looking through our dusty window panes, looking to a future we can’t touch, because it’s blurred and indistinct. And all that we can see is the mark that our breath leaves on the glass as we step away.

My exceptionally dazzling friend Louise posed the question,

“Why are we cursed with Bheki Cele- isn’t Coronavirus enough?”

This got me thinking that it’s about high time we spoke about the “not so new” Sheriff in town, Bheki Cele. Bheki Cele is basically one step down from the Sheriff of Nottingham, and let me tell you his name Cele, is fucking ironic.

Sheriff Cele told us categorically what we are not allowed to do during lockdown. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so fucking gleeful and smug about it, because it seems that he’s finally been given the opportunity to rid South Africa of sin and pestilence, and jogging.

Cele clarified that no one is to jog, or walk dogs during lockdown. To be fair, I’m totally down with this because what I’ve noticed about joggers and dog walkers is they really dig a “stop and chat while I just catch my breath”. And sure #NotAllJoggers… But you know I’m right. You’ve seen these people. They jog among us (and by “us” I mean you- jogging sucks).

And then Sheriff Cele announced that cigarettes are non-essential items for the lockdown and they’re banned. Now look, smoking is controversial, and Coronavirus is an absolute bitch for one’s lungs I’m told. But, let me tell you, as someone who has done a fair bit of “stress smoking” in her time, I can categorically say that lockdown is stressful and most people would rather smoke than eat. I went through a phase where I was nil by mouth except for Marlboro Golds, and if you’d given me a Woolies food voucher I would have hawked it for a carton of cigarettes no questions asked. Those days appear to be over, but I refuse to be a sanctimonious reformed smoker, and I believe that people get to choose what to do in the privacy of their own farmyards. Cele disagrees. He wants all the smokers in Mzansi to exit lockdown with bald patches, nervous twitches, and newly uploaded Tinder profiles. “Desperate smoker seeks another smoker to discuss PTSD and anger management issues. Not looking for anything serious, just someone who doesn’t resemble my ex in any way shape or form”.

And then there’s the bit that impacts me. Cele has a “hard no” policy on booze. And this is not a new position he’s trying out. So while I’m here, in case it’s not obvious, I would like to state my position on Bheki Cele. It’s a vigorous swipe left, devastatingly hard fucking no position. But unfortunately I don’t get to swipe left on him, I don’t get to ban him during lockdown. The fucking oke is all over my newsfeed and all up in my grill telling me what I can and can’t do. Anyone with the slightest inkling of historical knowledge will tell you that Prohibition was an unmitigated disaster… Yet Cele is on record saying that if he had his way he’d ban booze in SA across the board. “My first prize would be that we shut down alcohol, but I know we cannot do that. Nothing tells me that taking alcohol will make life easier.”

He’s giving us a lot of “pat on the back facts” about how well we’re doing with no booze, like he’s some kind of sobriety app. “Day 13 of no drinking, keep it up you’re doing so well, you’ve increased your life expectancy by 2 days!” Well the joke’s on you Cele, those of us who could afford to stockpile a little bit, and a lot, are still drinking. It sucks for those who can’t; the people who never get to benefit from democracy because they’re given the “illusion of choice” rather than real choices.

The amazing thing is that he attributes the decrease in crime, house robberies, and violent crime to the no alcohol vibes he’s throwing out.

Fun fact: robbers and criminals are also on lockdown Sheriff. And another fun fact: a lot of us are still having sundowners, night caps, breakfast beers, beer o’clocks, “the kids are driving me to drink(s)” and the classic “is it to early?” Trust me Bheki, a lot of us are going to town on drink combinations we didn’t think possible. Currently I’m enjoying gin, Aperol, soda and fresh lime… and let me tell you it’s really hitting the fucking spot. When you tell me I can’t do something I’m going to do the opposite of listen. And, I know I’m not alone because I surround myself with the best assholes, and none of us are buying what you’re selling. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Oh and there’s no kissing or snogging either, you can forget that. I think there are probably quite a few couples who wish Sheriff would try and extend this ban after the lockdown. “I’m sorry my bok, not tonight Bheki says no…” And I assume this means no sex either. Well judging by the numerous adverts and special deals going on people are still going to Pound Town.

I imagine there is going to be quite a New Year’s baby boom come 2021. And hospitals, I’m sorry to do this to you again, but there may be a shortage of beds… You may have to start thinking about where you’re going to put all of those labouring mothers because they’ll be rolling in hot come January. You’re going to be inundated.

But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…

Credit where credit is due… His hat game is real strong though. And on that note…

I think Woolies must have had a pre-lockdown special on stones, and my hunch is that there was some serious white level hoarding going on. I’m just sad that I missed that particular SMS informing me of this breathtaking special…

“WRewards: Don’t let imminent lockdown prevent you from exercising your right to self-righteous indignation. We have perfect deals for great deep level finger pointing. 40% OFF offer on ALL stones, along with the regulation 30% OFF Country Road. Valid until 28 March 2020. Shop safely in store”

Because the thing is, when I throw stones, I like my neighbours in their glass houses to see just how fucking suburban chic I look in my linen slacks. Jeff in marketing really nailed this “Country Roading Stones” campaign; he may just get his job back after the apocalypse. And elsewhere, I know Yuppiechef sold out of Le Creuset kettles (in black) well before the lockdown began.

I’ve lost count of the number of Tone Deaf Rangers I’ve seen galloping around. Someone actually told me “Lockdown isn’t a thing in KZN, the taxis are still running”. I know KZN can sometimes seem like the Wild Wild West, but I promise it is still part of South Africa, and Cyril is still your president. I promise guys, I know I live in Cape Town and I’ve changed (must be the wind). Then there have been the people cruising around their neighborhoods as vigilante pitch-fork operators, “Boet I’m just doing my bit to name and shame these okes who aren’t taking lockdown seriously”. Here’s the thing Charl… you’re under lockdown too… cruising the strip in your white Fortuner is not abiding by the rules. But sure, we get that you’re doing your civic duty to police “those people” who aren’t taking lockdown seriously.

And “those people” appear on WhatsApp family groups in videos and pictures… usually with comments like “We’re doomed”. And “They just don’t care”. And then in some of these places where “they” live, the army and police get sent in and people die. There’s a figure going around that 8 people have been killed at the hands of the police since lockdown… and fun fact they’re not white people in the suburbs. And let me tell you there are a lot of white people with very creative interpretations of what “stay the fuck at home” means.

When I look outside my window I’m not seeing an army presence… And you chaps and chapettes cruising the neighbourhood and doing your “social distancing” chats in the Spar and Woolies, and at your gated community recycling centres… the army aren’t watching you. The army aren’t watching the people who are sneaking across the lawns of their manicured estates to have a quick “social-distancing” beer or glass of wine. “It’ll be fine babe, we just won’t hug”. The virus arrived in the places that are getting policed and monitored the least… our kettles are boiling.

So perhaps we  should all adjust our attitudes and realise how fucking lucky we are to have unfettered access to Internet, running water, electricity (Inshallah), and comfort… while others can’t do social distancing that well because they have to queue for fucking outside toilets and money to stay alive. And let’s maybe think about all the medical workers, shelf packers, cashiers, and, and, and who wish thay they could fucking stay home in their jimjams and bake banana bread.

But my favourite Tone Deaf Ranger, who is up for “Best Minister in a Comedy Role” at the Rona2020 Awards, goes to Stella Ndabeni-Abrahams who needed no coaxing from Marlon Brando to come outside. In the most dazzling twist of irony “Stella!”, the fucking minister of communications, telecommunications, and postal services was caught attending a bloody lovely luncheon in a mate’s kiff house. But apparently she wasn’t there to enjoy the vibe, oh no she was picking up essentials… masks and other necessary accoutrements. The story went viral on socials… cos you know Minister of Communications…

What a fucking time to be alive guys.