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.

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.

This morning I had my “Truman Burbank moment” as I was brushing my teeth. I looked in the mirror and I realised that it’s just me… I am at the centre of my increasingly small universe. I am alone in my house and despite brief moments during the day where I connect with other people, it’s just me. This is my show. As I looked in the mirror I saw myself as the only physical company that I have. It’s just me in here. I quoted a line from the movie…

‘I hearby claim this place Jaqsmania… of the Hiltermann galaxy.’

In the moment where I acknowledged my shrinking world, I realised that as humans we all think that this is about us as individuals, not as us a collective. I think for people who live alone, this is even more so because there’s no one around us. And, aside from what we see on social media, television, and our limited shopping trips, we really have no fucking clue what’s going on outside our bubbles.

And, because conspiracy theories are trending, because I have an overactive imagination, and because I absolutely adore The Truman Show it got me thinking. What if this is an elaborate plot to trick me into staying at home? What if this is some crazy experiment that some social scientist cooked up? What if I’ve been specially selected as the guinea pig? What if this is a reality show? What if I am Truman Burbank?

And then I started thinking about all the ways that this could be true. Anyone who knows me will know that I only really shop at one specific Woolworths. I only ever go to the Checkers nearby if I need an emergency hangover coke (with my limited booze supply this isn’t fucking likely), cleaning supplies, or random items for a specific recipe. And sure I do grocery shopping elsewhere, but people who know me would know that in a lockdown situation there’s only one place I’d go- plus they’ve “coincidentally” introduced Free Parking as an added bonus. Hence, tracking my movements is pretty simple. On my weekly or bi-weekly shopping days it would be pretty easy to orchestrate a lockdown simulation… And the more I think about it the more I realise how many red traffic lights I sit through. They’re there to stall me. While I’m waiting at the red light, cashiers are putting on masks and the shops are temporarily closing. Hand sanitizer is being spritzed around for added authenticity. People are hiding. It’s the fucking Truman Show.

Social media is easy to infiltrate, as anyone with even the most basic understanding of Cambridge Analytica will tell you. And I’ve just been informed that the SA government is tracking our phones and our cars so basically I’ve been primed to accept that tracking and surveillance is the new normal. I’m not even questioning the ethics of it. I’m just like, “Sure, whatever, in for a penny in for a pound”. So I’m OK with being surveilled and I’m OK with the government snooping up on me… because I’ve been told it’s happening to everyone. “Well OK then, in that case…” Next thing I’ll be giving away my CVV code. It’s 142 by the way.

The bit that concerns me is how did they infiltrate my friends and family? Was this set up as an elaborate April Fools joke? Has any money changed hands? Is this being broadcast as a reality television show? Come to think of it some of my friends are suspiciously quiet… are they conscientious objectors to this charade? And then there are those friends who I haven’t heard from in bloody ages who are suddenly all over me like white on rice. Family members are also really crawling out the proverbial word work… my phone has never been hotter. This is unnerving. I’m beginning to have phone paranoia.

So in response I’m starting to change my behaviour. I am developing ways to be more entertaining and dazzling in case people are actually watching me. I don’t want people to think that I’m fucking boring and uninteresting. To make a start, I’ve upped my “compulsory dance parties” to four times a day and my “grapevine” to Rosemary is a fucking treat. I’m singing a lot. Ron Moss and I make quite the celebrity couple. A lot of my dialogue is now spoken out loud. We talk out loud a lot, and, now that I have an excuse I may abandon silent thoughts forever. I’m thinking of making pizza from scratch because no one has a YouTube video on “spreading almond butter on nice cakes”… Seriously no one wants to watch that shit. I might even start to take part in this fucking baking frenzy that all of you people doing “fake lockdown” are partaking in… You chaps are obviously doing all of these projects to inspire me. After all everyone knows that I’m fucking competitive so if I see a homemade ciabatta you just know I’m going to hop on board. And I won’t use a fucking bread maker either.

Just so you know, I see all of you dangling all of these challenges in my face just hoping I’ll jump on them and become lank interesting to watch… Fun Fact I am not doing the half marathon in my driveway challenge that can go fuck itself. But yes I will try the “Make your own Hunter’s Dry”.

And Cyril… if you’re listening, which you are, please lift the fucking booze ban. Everyone knows that in the Big Brother House shit escalates when you inject some booze. But just know that under no circumstances will I take a shit in the garden… I have my limits.

So I guess there is just one question… “How’s it going to end?”

Today I reached the 100K word mark. One hundred thousand words. In seven days Jaqui Hiltermann wrote more than her PhD thesis and she is smug as fuck. And exhausted, because I’m now allowed to use that banned word because I’ve fucking earned it. And sure the 100K is not exactly quality writing by any stretch of the imagination, BUT it’s been an absolute test of my resolve because I wasn’t allowed to use any swearing… If I was I could have pushed it to 110K. OK 120K easily.

So today I’m marking “Day Ten” by plagiarising a conversation I had on Facebook earlier because there is no ways I can come up with a creative narrative to mark the “halfway” mark. My brain just doesn’t have the stamina to do anything other than have another glass of wine and maybe try to do battle opening the blue cheese- but I don’t think I’ll manage that. And yes we’re on the halfway mark but, Fun Fact: if you think we’re getting out in 21 Days you’re dreaming… seriously I’ll bet a bottle of wine. But whatever helps you sleep at night.

So one of my top humans, Ron (his real name) has been having “issues” with joggers… and I’ll write about privileged joggers in another post, but I thought you might like this particular snapshot… Ron has a way with words (you should buy his book)

“Weird question: Is it hydrochloric acid that breaks down the human corpse to liquid or is it something else? Asking for a friend. Also have some assorted pairs of used jogging shoes for sale. Can deliver only after lockdown.” (Ron Irwin, 2020)

Jaqui: The return of joggers means that the earth is finally healing… Pinelands is healing…

Ron: The return has been partially halted.

Jaqui: Is this because of your canned jogger hunting?

Ron: They’re not “canned”. They are running free in their own environment and have a fair chance at survival. It’s sport. SMFH.

Jaqui: Whatever… I prefer trophy hunting.

Ron: “It puts the takkies in the basket or it gets the hose..”

Jaqui: This is all going in my book.

And mark my words all of this will be embellished in my book because there’s a lot to be said for a story about Pinelands joggers going AWOL during lockdown… but for now I leave you with this.

Stay the Fuck Indoors: so nature can heal or whatever.