So, I’m lying in bed, reading my book on this beautiful weekend morning (yup, the sun has even sneaked a peak though the clouds), and my phone bings. It’s THAT bing. The one you know you just gotta look at. The smile is already turning to a chuckle, and I have not even opened the message. I admit it ... I keep a stock pile of those, ‘laugh-till-your-tummy-aches’ videos for emergency situations where someone has peeved me, or another lack of sunshine day has just got me down. Thankfully I do not need to dive into my videos pile too often, but still I’m always looking for something new, something that just tickles my own peculiar sense of OTT funny. For instance, I LOVED the Marelize thing. Not just the video, which in itself was funny, but the memes that came soon after, were just classic. I’d love to share them all with you, but because the world is full of snowflakes these days, who are offended at practically everything, one cannot share most of the stuff. I found this one very funny, and surely will elicit a chuckle from even the staunchest snowflake! Don’t be a snowflake, be lekker! #LagSaam 😂🤪
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Every year, the Riebeek Kasteel Laersklool, in the Cape Winelands hosts a sport tournament in the Riebeek Valley. People come from all over to take part, and as you can imagine, it’s quite an event in this little dorp, with 28 teams taking part in the Rugby portion alone! The town, which most of the time is quite a chilled little place, becomes a hive of activity, with adults and kids bustling around in a happy haze of sport excitement! On Friday past, the Mum of one of my son’s friends back in this little dorp, sent me a WhatsApp to say that her son, Evan, had been chosen as part of a rugby team to travel to Ireland from 18 to 27 Sep 2019! NO WAY! From ALL 28 teams that took part in the Rugby portion of the Sport Tournament, they chose ONE team, and this group of lads, will be travelling to Ireland as the Riebeek Valley Under 13 Invitational Team! The excitement and pride at young Evan’s achievement, amongst all those that know him, is palpable. The kids in this valley exude talent, from sport to singing and performing, but every so often, one of them rises to extraordinary heights, like local lad, Pieter-Steph du Toit, who plays lock and flank for the Springboks! I think we have another Springbok in the making people!! BOKKE BOKKE BOKKE!
Evan's Momma-Bear is pretty pro-active though! She approached a family friend, who in turn contacted a number of companies and some rugby players, and in THREE days, they raised the money needed for young Evan to go on the trip! I am astounded! It is times like this, that I truly appreciate and miss South Africa – the true support and South African UBUNTU is quite unique. However, while the tour price from the agent is covered, the lad still needs a little more, to cover the incidental expenses, spending money and all those little things that add up! With the Rand / Euro exchange, this is pretty daunting for a young family. SO, South Africans all over, please help this young man on his way! Help him realise his dream, by donating a few Rands / Pounds / Euro / Dollar towards his trip. Its times like THIS that we need to stand up and make a difference. YOU could be helping to kick start the career of a new Springbok! Please support him – EVERY bit helps!
Cool as cucumbers (we are after all accustomed to power issues) we went around the house turning off the plugs. Within 3 min, the fire brigade came careening past our house. 😳 Ooooh. I then heard what sounded like multiple gunshots. I admit it. I was touched. The Brits were welcoming us with a power outage and gunshots in the street. How thoughtful .... I felt SO at home. 🙃 Then reality hit, and I realised .. "Ai, these are not gunshots, and the Brits are faaaar toooo polite to shoot anything other than foxes (🤬) and pheasants.
I quickly realised what the problem was. The unusually strong wind had damaged the overhead power cables (yes, most are underground, but in this semi-rural dorp, they are not) and one was spitting and swearing. The police chap asked me if I was not scared. DUH. I replied that it was actually quite intriguing, and not in the least bit scary, and in fact I had thought it was a welcoming committee to make us feel at home. "aaah he said grinning; "From South Africa are you?" KAK snaaks. The other oke, who had clearly never heard a SAFFA accent, looked at me quite skeef. So, we had a power outage in Devon today. I felt quite at home. Sleep tight and enjoy the weekend.
I had not had a good night, as despite having a bed, and great food and wine. Not long after take-off, I had started experiencing severe chest pains. I didn’t say anything to the staff, as I didn’t want cause a diversion to Lagos or somewhere equally horrible, so I shut up, snuggled under my duvet, and tried to ignore the fact that I seemingly was not long for the world.
Seems every morning, his new bird insists on being fed, and becomes quite pushy when he doesn’t provide food quickly enough. I’m thinking, “he’s moved her into my home!” Bastard, I will kill him! I will wait till I get home though, then I can kill both of them. Save me driving all the way home – he can drive. aid littler person flies over to the UK before I do, and starts school. When I arrive, I realise that my sweet little cherub (read monster) is in …. wait for it …. A GOVERNMENT school! Whaaaaaatttt? NOOIT! I nearly vreked on the spot! When I realised, my heart sank, I broke out into a sweat, and I swear my left eyeball started to jitter! I drank a lot of wine that night. Next morning I started doing research on the schools I would want him to attend in the area. It seems there are two private schools, and I decided then and there, he would attend one or the other. So, next step was to see how the transport worked etc – no problem. Easy peasy. Then I looked at the prices. HOLY MOLY! I would have to sell my kidney, my husband’s kidney … and likely the kidneys of all the people in our village. Are these people MAD? I don’t want to buy a small country, I just want my son to attend a private school. So, my son attends a government school. He is happy. He is doing well. I’m coping. I am also playing the lotto! In truth, I may need counselling.
So, I’m standing there, minding my own business, when this oke comes strolling out of the bank, wearing a riot-gear type helmet, and carrying BAGS of cash. REALL bags of cash money. Pounds. F*CK I think he is robbing the place, so I quickly look down, so that I cannot identify him, thereby reducing the danger - you know, standard stuff. Nobody else is reacting at all. They just completely chilled. Idiots. Anyhow, he walks past me, and I sneak a peek at his back, and it says “XYZ Security”. NO WAY. He is collecting money. I quickly dive into my bag for my trusty IPhone, and start to video him. I mean, it’s mad. He has no armour, no gun, no knife, NOTHING, and he’s not even a big oke – I could bliksem him easy-peasy. I forget them and follow the dude out onto the MAIN ROAD, where he happily trots down the road, with people passing by in both directions, to an armoured vehicle. It wasn’t even parked right OUTSIDE. There is NOBODY with a gun or anything. He opens the back door (not locked) and there are TONS of bags of money in there. He casually gets in, knocks three times on the door (not the ceiling) and they drive off. They CLEARLY didn’t get the memo that a South African had moved to town. I am SO gonna get a crook outfit and rob them. It’s just toooo tempting.
So we tootling along and have all our stuff, and I head off to the far end to the check-out tills. “Oh NO”, says my son, “We can do self-check-out”. My skin instantly became clammy and my palms started to perspire. WTF! But, I am no quitter, so I agreed and off we went. Well, this thing did NOT like me at all, and I was awfully polite to it.
Kid takes my Sainsbury card, scans it, takes my credit card to pay, and I start to pack. NOOIT, the darn thing starts going ballistic again, and I freeze again. Said pimply teen ambles back over and mumbles something else to me. My son translates this mumble to “Mum, you are not supposed to pack till you have paid”. Eish, these things should come with instructions. Needless to say, from there on, I have I reverted back to the check-out ladies.
Next thing there was a moerse commotion at the front door, and I flew out of bed like a mad woman, ready to take on ….. the postman. Ai, the poor oke, I think he nearly vrekked when I opened the door like a deranged chewed mango pip! There he stood, post in hand – he’d been trying to put the post through that metal thingy-majig slot in the door – I didn’t think people even had those anymore? How friggin quaint! Wonder if he will ever come back? I should probably get a sign that says “Forget the dog, watch out for the Mother”! My friends dropped me at the airport, and amid waves and kisses, off I scarpered. The nerves were well into high gear by then, as really, I do not like to fly. A porter appeared out of nowhere and politely asked if he could help me with my bags. Big, BIG mistake. Clearly the oke had not seen my trolly. I happily accepted, and when he saw my bags, eish, his face dropped. While having my bags wrapped, the chap says “Naaaay, you sure these bags are OK for weight Mevrou?”. Yes, says me, I weighed them at home – we good to go, and he duly wrapped them good and proper. I get to check-in, and one bag is 34kg – Noooooo! So there is me, cutting the wrapping and hauling out goodness knows what, & stuffing random articles into my already bulging hand luggage, so that the checked bag be within the 32 kg max allowance. Made note to self: Get a new scale! Mr Porter, after getting his well deserved fat tip, was nowhere to be seen, so now in a bad mood, muttering under my breath about the darn scale, I tootled off again to Mr Bag-Wrapper, who gave me a sly grin and quips, “Mos gesê” – which cracked me up and I was happy again. Life’s too short to worry about kak.
The flight was thankfully non-eventful and we arrived at Heathrow on time. Waiting at the carousel, I realised I had a kak-load of baggage, and no porter in sight. I was craning my neck, looking around like a deranged giraffe, but no porter to be found! Nadda. Niks. When I started hauling the first bag off, a lovely young South African man came to my aid, and said “Let me help you with that, Tannie”. I let the “Tannie” thing go, as he really was being a great help, and I know he was just being respectful. But why does that word make me grrill so much? Seeing my husband and son (son had flown over 2 weeks prior … but that’s another story) was really super. My husband had no trouble fitting all the bags into the car – clearly all those years playing Tetris helped. So, we are all here, safe and sound. Bring it on England …. I’m ready for this!
Finally after much back and forth, we are in the bakkie, on our way to fetch our son from school, so he can wave goodbye to Dad at the airport. We get to school, and bliksem, the little chap is nowhere to be found. Did he forget, and go back with the lift-club, is he somewhere quiet doing his homework (never) or …. has he been kidnapped? Don’t worry says hubby, if he has been kidnapped we can make some money out of it, as they are sure to pay us to take him back! :-( Before breaking out into a panic and calling the cavalry, we ask some of the other kids, who duly point us towards the sport field … should have known. There he is, playing soccer with his mates! He is laughing and is clearly very happy, and for the millionth time, I wonder if we are doing the right thing. Anyhow we bundle him into the car, and make our way to the airport. After the big bag wrap, we head off to check-in. I wonder if the check-in lady will raise an eyebrow at all the baggage, but she is as cool as a cucumber, and doesn’t bat an eye. We duly check in his 96kg, and the rest is ‘hand luggage’. Yes I know it is a LOT, but before you start accusing us of being like some passengers that are clearly waaaay over the permitted allowance, he is not. The fact that hubby can barely carry all his hand luggage, is beside the point – we need to make use of the maximum allowance. My son and I go out to dinner to ‘celebrate’ and then home to bed, as tomorrow is school. I have not slept alone for a very long time, and it is not great. The dogs are in the house, the doors and windows are locked, and the alarm is set – but still I am uneasy, and every little noise wakes me. Môre is nog n dag. |
KateMoving countries is not for sissies. Someone suggested I write my own little blog, to remind myself how far we have come, and to have a way of expressing myself, to keep the stress levels down a tad. |