A picture is worth...

a thousand words.



I am just not sure what this one is about....

Homesickness and the tokoloshe

We had a weekend of feeding the hordes - friends came around on Saturday and we made a potjie (picture above) which roughly translates into a giant stew. I chose goulash as it is one of my favourite dishes in all the world and it tastes even better the next day. It cooked away on the stove in the cast iron potjie (cauldron, then) for around six hours. Needless to say the beef was so tender it broke apart into even smaller strips and bits when I dished the food that evening. Man oh man - it was gorgeous. Like with all kinds of meat dishes used for a stew/sauce, by cooking away for hours on the stovetop it only benefited. My con carne and chilli never cooks for less than three hours.

Oh well - the potjie put me in mind of family and friends, back in South Africa. The fact that I am reading a new author who had written "Gem Squash Tokoloshe" didn't help either. It is set in the Northern Transvaal and so liberally peppered with true South Africanisms that unless you come from there, you wouldn't get it. The tokoloshe in the title is a kind of boogyman that the bantu/natives (I have no idea what to term them anymore...indigenous south africans?) believed in. They would raise their beds off the ground by placing bricks under the feet which helped prevent the tokoloshe from stealing you away.

And there I sat today, wrapped in a cloak of memories - homesick is the word. Plain and simple. Not even for the country itself but for my family and for my childhood when lazing about in the garden, at the side of the house was the best thing in the world, eating watermelon till you couldn't breathe and chasing the dog up into the apricot tree and then having to climb after it to rescue it. How we used to plot and plan a raid on the neighbour's fruit orchard and how to sneak the long way back so that no one would catch you. Or listening to Springbok Radio after school, whilst doing your homework, keeping up to date with the radio soapies was the thing to do. Then changing over to listening to Radio 5 and their pop and rock music. And in the evenings there was Radio Highveld that played the smooth "classics". How innocent and uncomplicated life was then...How desperately I wanted to be an archeologist and dig up treasure that I used to steal money from my mom's purse and bury it in the driveway and dig it up a few minutes later and pretend it was a find even cooler than Carter finding King Tut's tomb!

How, at Christmas, there were so many presents under the tree that you can't fathom how Kersvader managed to get his fat gut through the door, nevermind all that loot! How I couldn't figure out why my dad kept on disappearing at a certain time of night on Christmas eve and then, suddenly, there was Father Christmas in his big red suit, squishy tummy and beard...and how odd he was, smelling just like my dad...and they even had the same old scars on their hands from working with machinery. I was about thirteen when I eventually figured out they were the one and the same. How the tables groaned under food made by my mom and all my sisters! We used to feast like there was no tomorrow and the next day...it would happen all over again. And of course, Christmas was in Summer so that was even better cos you could go play outside in the sprinklers after opening presents just because it was that hot.

I told a friend today how I longed for that...for those memories again and she told me the Welsh have a name for it...it is called Hireath (no doubt I have misspelt it) but it means longing, homesickness, a longing for a youth that once was. And that is how it has been these past few days. Tsk.

Thanks for ruminating with me. It was a good haul.

Gotta love the Welsh!

From Ananova:-

20ft porn star shocks Cardiff

A group students were arrested in Cardiff for projecting a porn film on to a neighbour's house.
They set up the 20ft x 30ft screening so that all their pals could watch it in the street.
Student Nick Griffin, 20, said: "The women were three times lifesize - it was great."

Proof positve....

Vampires are real...

Yes, on a slightly different tangent - if vampires did exist, in the classical sense surely

a) they would smell to high heaven as they are sorta dead
b) having sex with them would be the same as necrophilia
c) having sex would be physically impossible as there is no blood flow to - you know - engorge wossnames
d) they must have seriously bad breath

And I wonder what is going to happen now that New Orleans is destroyed (all those dead bodies to eat, yum Lestat!) - are all the vampire-wannabes going to find somewhere else to hang out now?

LA, perhaps? The land of the sun and Hollywood eyecandy.

I am an addict...

I am an addict.

I thought I would blog it before Mr. G does.

I am a obsessive compulsive book addict. I can see you breathe a sigh of relief going “Phew, that’s okay Liz, it isn’t that bad, surely.”

Well. You are wrong. It is bad. If I didn’t occasionally get rid of books, I don’t think we would have anywhere to sit. I have got three large bookshelves full of my “favourite” books. Books that I am happy to reread, cart about in my handbag. I have books on ancient history, fantasy, horror, thrillers, books on writing, various crafts and diy, gardening, childrens books, faery tales, mythology, medieval history, religions, theology, ancient mysteries. I have books on Norse legends, a favourite copy of Beowulf so well read we know the passages off by heart. I think I have read every angle on Arthur and his knights, I have various miscellaneous books on Celtic tales, French faery tales, I have a copy of the Annotated Brothers Grimm (complete with illustrations by Arthur Rackham). I have a limited edition copy of the Chronicles of Narnia.

And it isn’t as if I don’t read them!

No. These are books with my fingerprints in them. They have all been read. And loved. Companions on train journeys, flights, long lazy baths, even longer and lazier weekends when there is nothing else to do but settle down and read.

I have books on the windowsill next to the bed. I have a bookcase on the landing crammed full of books. I carry at least two books with me each day – one a novel, another any one of the above subjects oh, and a notebook to make notes and scribble ideas and such like. (Always handy when you are sitting in Starbucks, plugged into your MP3 player and idea for a brilliant storyline strikes you out of the blue between sipping a double mocha latte espresso drink with cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles whilst wondering why they don’t hire barristas who can speaka da eeenglishe.)

I can’t be trusted in Waterstones. Or Foyles. Or Forbidden Planet. Or Ottakars. Or Books etc. And not second hand bookshops either. They call to me. I swear it.

If I am not buying for myself, I always manage to come away with something for someone I know. I don’t understand it when I ring Mr. G and say “Hi, I am on my way to Waterstones, do you want anything from there?” and he goes “Uhm, no, not really.” He doesn’t visit bookshops as often as I do, totally relying on my habit to get enough books for both of us. But still, I can’t understand it…how can you not know what your next book is going to be? Even if it isn’t a specific author or book…maybe a genre.

My name is Liz and I have a problem. Please donate generously.

To PsP or not to PsP!?

Pleh, pleh! Am in a giant conundrum. Do I PSP or don't I? Our sixth wedding anniversary is coming up in October and I would love to get a nice sumat for Mr. G.

And the obvious choice is either a brand spanking new PSP - which I know very little about but it is such a cool gadget (hangs head in shame, yes, I admit it...I am a gadget geek) and, well, its cool!

Or, the other sumat I am thinking of is MP3 player.

Oh dear. Unless, we make a promise as follows:- save up a bit of dosh (pray the PSP price goes down a bit) then just buy two of them (cos I want one too, see?) and then we can ahem, play together.

Oh the choices. Oh the look on the face of the present receiver when the present is opened and lo...there is a dvd he always wanted...Army of Darkness...compred to a psp...or another gadget...or do I get a book?

Oh hell.

Why I love the public transport system!

Why oh why do these things happen to me?

Friday afternoon travelling home should be an event of great relief and great joy after a long hard week of slogging.

Not so.

Not for me and others who took the 5:58pm train from Charing Cross to Hayes. All went well until a dodgy chap got on, muttering to himself. I thought, fair ‘nough, I am sure I mutter to myself too on occasion. I probably fall asleep in mid-conversation and snore too, but that is besides the point. Said Odd Man (after this referred to as OM) plonked himself down on a two seater, facing me, but far enough away so that I was not subjected to spittle flying. But I kept my umbrella handy. OM then proceeded to make a range of very abusive phone calls – as soon as he started cussing like a sailor with tourettes I plugged myself into my mp3 player – and was amazed to watch his facial contortions which resulted in a standing fight, complete with hand outflung, and foot kicking his train seat whilst I was listening to Maroon 5. It didn’t stop there. Because I was in his line of view he started making eye contact and spitting randomly, plucking at his hair, doing a very good imitation of someone very close to a nervous breakdown.

At the one station, as people started getting up to get off, he eyeballed this one chap, started calling him names that made my hair curl, and invited him off the train for a good old one-two (in much rougher language than that, I might add). OM was working himself up to a frenzy now and was swearing even louder (yes, that is possible). Which is the point where I drew the line. I asked the lady sitting next to me to please excuse me.

Being that close to a psycho was making me feel physically ill – no jokes. I got up and went to go sit much further down the passage. This was about the time he lit up a cigarette. And of course, everyone was so stunned and scared witless, no one bothered asking him not to.

I made my escape at my station, physically shaken by the encounter. I am so glad that I am not his wife, partner or one of his kids – I think that is what the fight was about – not being able to see his kids or something like that. I didn’t want to listen – he kept on threatening to kill “her” and rip “her” heart out.

Unfortunately, I was too far down the train to actually speak to the train driver – I think maybe half the coach got off at our stop, just to get away from him, even though the next train was twenty minutes later.

Tsk. So much for starting a peaceful weekend.

A witchy link!

I am branching out!

Since I now have a superdooperwhoppingubercomputer - grin - I thought I would create a site for my other passion - all things esoterical and this is the link to it:-

http://childofherne.blogspot.com/

I spent some time doing this up, and I am quite chuffed. I have invited my friend Viv to "join me, join me" - so we see how that goes. It will hopefull act as an impetus to get me going on my own studies into tarot, runes...and all other things weird and wunnerful!

A completely etherial, wistful, witchy and crafty website, compared to my more grounded self, in this blog.

I don't have the side-bar-links on this site, so unfortunately I can't link through - unless someone knows how to do it on this one? If so, please comment! I shall be eternally grateful.

Wahoo, I gotit!

In return for my brand spanking new (second hand) computer from his work I dragged the Mr. over to Sainsburys and we bought yummy stuff for lunch - i.e. grown up food. Genuine roast potatoes, genuine lovely shoulder of pork stuffed with sage and onion, parsnips and a feast of other grown up healthy veg. It was lovely. We played some Mortal Kombat, I got my butt served to me on a platter in each of my different guises and as I bowed out, in squelchy noises of gushing blood to do the dishes, Mr. G dashed upstairs to connect me to the net...and lo and behold...here I am.

Whoo - the excitement is rife.

Only problem now is ... the keyboard is very very very loud. And Mr. G is already glaring at me cos it is making so much noise...at 75wpm.

Grin.

Yay!

Signs and portents

I really think this sign should be prominently displayed as we travel into work. In fact, it should be a pop-up as we enter our workplace.

Sometimes, I wonder, how I have managed to stay out of jail. If I had to give in to my impulses of homicidal tendencies my entire team I have been working for for the past two years would be obliterated. To smithereens, never to be found again.

Take today, for instance. Only one example mind...We have a general email list to all other property companies in the UK. It is accessible to everyone on our server, if you know where to look. And even if you didn’t, it is piss-ant easy to find because it is stored in a very logical place.

So one of my AD’s (associate director) from now on known as the Scottish Pansy, decides he wants the updated list on his computer. No worries, Liz will show him how to do it. Half and hour later, because he doesn’t want to relinquish his seat so I can do it, and because he wants to do it himself with his bizarre little monkey hands/Gollum fingers, and he has no technological skills at all, we still haven’t managed to link Outlook Contacts with the Contacts list. Jaysus and Mary up a tree.

And he keeps braying at me in this deep stupid accent “I canna unerstaend whyi it isna wurkeen” and as he does, I have mental pictures of myself going Tomb Raider on his ass, cgi blood spilling everywhere and me, standing there, looking stupidly happy as I survey the carnage. I realise, in my demented mind, that this isn’t possible, so I concentrate on the fact that I have got Syndol in my bag and some tequila waiting for me at home tonight and if things progressively get worse, I have absinthe too. Just to wipe today completely from my mind. And to make things worse, he stank of old booze, stale cigarettes AND garlic.

Shudder.

If life could be this easy...

A bit of whimsy

It must be puppy love!

Yesterday was a strange old day. I do not generally subscribe to teary fits or “woe is me” tantrums but for some bizarre reason only known to the Creatrix I was struck with a fit of being a girly-grrl.

Ech. I felt put upon. A fragile thing.

During a conversation with one of my colleagues yesterday morning I burst out into tears – blubbering about Gene Kelley in Singing in the Rain we watched a bit of the night before and how not only was it one of my favourites but one of my mom’s too. And how, when I got into work no one in my team bothered acknowledging my presence (not an unusual occurrence as they are all general aholes anyway and have to emerge from their cave of self-love to notice anyone anyway) and how low that made me felt. She blinked at me and then, without a word, gave me a hug and a few minutes later brought around a gorgeous scrummy donut.

Then, during another conversation with another colleague I once again broke down, embarrassingly, trying to explain to her how rough I felt. The upend of this conversation is a whole swathe of lovely pictures and emailed poems to make me feel better. Which it didn’t as they were all poems about soppiness but the thought counted and I felt much better.

I got forced into a lunch with all the girls and they vied to tell me all about their favourite movies to have a good cry to. We had a good laugh, the food was predictably shite, but the company was good and all in all they were there being lovely and sweet.

By the end of the day, however, my nerves were raw and all I wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to go home and be safe and loved. But first there was a shopping expedition at Tesco. But Mr. G, being the hero he is, did most of the shopping and all I had to do is stand around blankly and hand him plastic packets whilst he packed groceries.

I got home, made gorgeous beautiful risotto (comfort food) and hugged poor Sparrow constantly whilst sitting on the couch. Sparrow, who never stints when love is being dealt out, licked back enthusiastically so the evening ended well with me and my hair dreadlocked by doggy spittle, my face throroughly cleansed with doggy drool, and my cares washed away by doggy love and the best tea made by the husband.

My heroes.