A Good Wife and labour simulation

I’m very excited to be shortly revealing the cover to my new novel “A Good Wife”

And so in keeping with this, I started thinking about what constitutes  a good wife.

I guess it’s changed a lot over the generations, with I would hope current wives having (culture dependent) equal independence, income, freedom of speech, career etc, as their husbands/partners.

The only thing we’ve not got right yet is childbirth. And as a mummy/parent, I have to say I wish we could share that bloody job too!   On that note, have you watched any of  labour simulation videos available in cyberspace?  If you haven’t, it shows a man in a device that simulates birth. And once again as a mummy/parent I would be lying if I said I didn’t find it to be HILARIOUS!

But back to being a good wife then. Does this mean, good as in does as she’s told or else, will have sex whenever I want it whether she wants or not, won’t eat supper until I get home from the pub no matter what time I get in, let’s me do as I please as long as she’s got cash to splash, or good as in, wonderful to share my life with, has my back, couldn’t be without her? Id like to think the latter, however would argue not for all.

Would be interested in what you think . . .


This is me, about to become a good wife  – of the latter type.

Daff came early, apologies and wax

Was rather surprised, and very delighted, to see our first Daff arriving today. She’s a little early, with the South African spring only arriving 1st September.

It’s amazing to think this gorgeous yellow creation could bring such a huge smile to our winter garden.


And for those of you who can hear Harry Potter from my TV down here in Cape Town, I do apologise, really think the hubby should invest in an hearing aid, or failing that shove a couple of earbuds down each lug hole to remove an iceberg size of wax!


We’ve been doing a lot of heave-ho-out-you-go of late. And my word how wonderful it has been. Admittedly it requires skipping over, or even better limbo-ing under the emotional rope we tend to attach to possessions, but once done, it’s a free for all.

me waitress

Photos have been a biggie. Over the years we have accumulated many, filling boxes and albums that spend their time being transported from house to house as we move. As we opened them there were some real treasures, and equally there were many which kind of had us wondering what on earth we were thinking, where on earth is that place, and good grief that can’t possibly be me and best you get that shredder out NOW!


Glasses, now there’s a thing. For anybody who wears specs you’ll know the agony of choosing a new pair. You do your best when squinting into a mirror as you try endless frames on, asking the assistant “is this me” and equally telling her “no-way, I look like my great-grandmother from 1702.” And then you decide. You collect the new pair and welcome the positive comments from friends and family, and generally feel good about having your photo taken.  FOOLISH! Have you taken a look at yourself in all those old photos and not asked yourself how anybody could have let you settle on that pair?


In my case there is photographic evidence of many major fails in the goggles department. My face is quite small, so how I ended up with a frame more suited to an elephant beggars belief. Then there are the pairs with wonky shaped arms, they sort of start at your ear, take a right angle to the left and then another angle back up where they attach to the lens section.  I’ve had the John Lennon shape that only JL should ever have worn, and dare I admit to the funny colours and oddly placed bling choices. Body shudders at the thought.  Well I don’t need to expand too much on where those photos ended up do I?


The interesting thing though is how the photo has changed over the years. Hubby was a keen photographer in his youth, creating his own dark room to fiddle with his lens and all. From here we had quite a few, shall we say, interesting images, large and small, black and white and far too many girlfriends for my liking! Kidding of course, however they went into the shredder too. Cough, cough.  We also had a lot of the small square photos, again black and white with the occasional colour one. Gradually the size increased and more became colour, and with this change so they were handed in at a 24 hour development point, before being returned in a long envelope with a ream of negatives for further development.


Then of course came digital. And with that we had photo explosion. We seemed to have taken hundreds of images, of the same thing, from every possible angle under the guise of can be deleted later, yet rarely were. And each time, all were printed, supplying us a wedge of photos to keep any door open in a typhoon. The rubbish dump of Cape Town is probably sprinkled with glossy celluloid flowers and historical places, and quite a lot of faces we have no idea of who they are. There’s quite a number of animals too. During one visit to Bushman’s Kloof a particular Zebra was photographed from the rear, front, side and then all over again. They hit the bin too.


We must have run out of money then, because we stopped printing and copied to discs instead. Crickey, this lot weigh a tonne. The problem now is that as my laptop no longer comes with a CD drive, I have copied many onto memory sticks and backed them up to other places until I have so many duplicates, triplicates and quadruplicates I can’t cope with finding anything I want anymore!


So which ones do I enjoy the most? The older ones, when the 35mm film was a requirement, when you had to finish a film and hope what you’d taken didn’t have Auntie Sue with a mouthful of marshmallows, or the dog raising a leg against Uncle Albert’s leg, as he coaxed the braai. The memories raised of my children are the without doubt the best. When they were small, exploring, laughing, cheering, growing, out with friends and family, toothless smiles at times, and badly cut hair, which I hope they’ll forgive me for at some point.

Tube Escalator
Tube Escalator

So photos have come and gone and we are left with only the special ones. We’re reasonably confident we will not be so eager to snap every raindrop or passing cloud in the future, concentrating instead on special moments alone.  Will we be successful . . . time will tell, time will tell.


Massive birthday cake fail for Frozen’s Elsa

I’ve been lucky with my own children’s birthday cakes, all arrived exactly as I’d expected. Clearly this is not the same experience for all.

Look at this hilarious photo. On the right is the birthday cake that was ordered, on the left is what arrived. Oh dear, seems Elsa from frozen had some Botox that started to melt, or perhaps she has a serious case of jaundice

Source DailyMail.co.uk 

massive cake fail

What makes us human

Weekly I download Jeremy Vines’s podcast regarding What makes us human?, and thoroughly enjoy listening to how the diverse bunch of folk invited to explore this, first read an essay on said question, and then subject themselves to interview.

Each week you’re never quite sure of what will be presented by either a celeb or academic, but what you are assured of, is that nobody ever has the same response.

This morning then I started thinking about the question and wondered if it is as simple as the need to wear underwear and clothes to conceal ones modesty, or does it come down to brain, speech and the use of our thumbs?  Or is there the romantic out there who considers the art of love, whether it be found via sharing and or receiving?

What do you think?


Great-Aunt Milly’s false teeth

The funny thing is, that once you start to think about something, the more you hear about it from other sources, or the more you see things related to it. Or in my case the more intrigued I become about it.

Take a car as an example. You want to buy a new one, you research it, test-drive it, and then you buy it. For an instance you allow yourself to believe you are the only person in the world driving this make and model. You are in fact a genius. Yet no sooner are you out of the showroom than every other car you pass is the same as yours. How can it be, when only an hour ago there were none? Has your single purchase sparked a deluge of sales? Have you in fact triggered a change in the car industry for the common man?

Ok, so I’ve gone off at a bit of tangent with regards to what I really wanted to talk about, but it might make sense in a minute. I’ve just finished reading Time and Time again by Ben Elton. For me it was a brilliant read. A time travelling story about Hugh Stanton who is offered the opportunity to go back in time to change one single thing for the greater good. In this instance the moment is pre-determined for him. He is to return from 2024 to 1914, where he is to stop WW1 from starting.

Typically I don’t read time traveling novels of any form. But as I finished this one, so I was told about Kate Atkinson’s Life after Life, which while not time travelling as such, does play with the notion of being reborn repeatedly.

And then, even before I had finished Time and Time Again, I was already asking myself and my husband a couple of questions.

  1. What sort of world would we be living in if the war had been prevented?
  2. What would you change if you were offered the chance to change one thing?

To answer the first question, one can only surmise that either all would be good, or the poop would have hit the fan. I argued that even if the assassination of Arch Duke Ferdinand had been prevented on that day, it was likely it would have happened on another, as would the subsequent war. The mood was set after all, and it was only a matter of time. In effect a time traveller would only prevent the eventuality. The book incidentally offers a theory. One that I’m rather glad never materialized.

As to question 2. What would I change and what would my husband change? The book really got me thinking about this, because the butterfly effect can be considerable if one is to believe the reality of time travel even exists. We banded about the typical of studying harder and pursuing different careers, living in different countries, taking the chance of purchasing that house that was way out of our price bracket and so on. And each time I found myself considering that if I had not moved for example to South Africa, I would not have had my children, nor married my husband, or even had the opportunity to take a tandem skydive. All clichéd, yet true.

So ok, you could suggest I go back to visit and merely observe a moment in history. Well if you use the book for example, where Hugh is there to stop Ferdinand’s death, if we were to change the plot ever so slightly to believe he is only there to live through the mad moment and do nothing, what would transpire? Evidently more than you realize. Hugh, only moments away from the assassination, innocently buys a flower from a peasant girl, supplying her more money than she has ever had before. Such a kind gesture, yet significant, because by doing so, she stops to buy food, bumps into the assassin and stops Ferdinand’s death. Imminent war is gone, and long term it is disastrous as Hugh struggles to correct, and in turn magnify the butterfly effect.

Of course we can simplify this and put forward a simple decision to go back to when your Great-Aunt Edith died after a large brussel sprout was lodged in her throat during a Sunday lunch some years ago. She was a dear old girl and nobody wanted her to end her life this way. You go back, whack her on her back and she lives for another ten years, leaving you all her money and a soggy white cat. Lovely. But, have you thought that by doing this you didn’t allow your estranged Great-Aunt Milly to attend the funeral of her sister and ultimately be welcomed back into the family, taking her from poverty to live her life in comfort, along with her long-lost false teeth you found at the bottom of the laundry basket when clearing out her house?

After much debate and considerable regard to brussel sprouts, I find that no matter how much I think about my life and what I would love to go back and change, it seems to me, I would be doing myself a disfavour in doing so.

Sadly I find I would have to leave Great-Aunt Edith to her brussly demise, and further enjoy the chance to witness Great-Aunt Milly take pleasure in being able to gnaw her way through a further ten years of sinew and bone.