Tag: Daily Life

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Buzz off already

My lovely man and I are both bee appreciators. He is a big fan of Bee Vectoring actually. Very interesting stuff. Bees and bats. He loves them. And birds. The birds and the bees with the old bat (did you see what I did there?).

Anyway, we got some fellow (The Bee Man, most originally), to make us a hive. Immediately we realised we were out of our depth, because he kept on telling us the extra things we needed and when we received it, it all looked quite complicated.

Slightly daunted, but nevertheless optimistic that we were single handedly going to save the planet and really, how difficult could it be, we persevered. We put it in the bottom of the garden and started going with a little pot to collect our honey every morning. The Bee Man (lying bastard), had told us they would just ‘come’.

They did not. We paid another fellow to relocate a swarm to our hive. They left.

Location, location… we were not it.

We need a Queen my lovely man lamented, do we know if our swarm had a queen? We knew nothing and also, is there really room for another queen in this household?

Then… a couple of things happened. I read that Jodi Picoult book and realised just how ignorant we were on bee-keeping (and transgenders for that matter). And then, there were at least two horrific incidents that I heard of where dogs were attacked by bees.

I looked at my dear little Alfie pup and with a sinking heart acknowledged that he could irritate anything into a killing frenzy.

Give the hive away I ordered my lovely man… we can’t have bees.

We’ll sell it he said. We are not sellers of anything really. We are givers away or hoarders. He is the latter.

So, the hive has sat in the garage, on top of the bat box (we never attracted bats either). Once again, is there really room for another bat in this household?

And then, a year later, the bees arrived and made their home in the hive, in the garage.

I am not sure how we are suddenly the location of choice, but there you go.

So, we have moved the hive to a safe location nearby, out of the reach of my little Alfie and we are tending, in an ignorant way really, to bees.

The bees have chosen us. What a blessing.

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Listen properly now

My lovely man and I recently made arrangements to meet my parents at Tshipise, Forever Resorts for a few days. You know, the hot springs place in SA. Worth a visit.

My father phoned to let us know they had arrived and checked in. We were still on our way, enduring a shit show of a journey. I won’t bore you… Or I may in another blog, but I’m beginning to suspect our GPS lady is a day time drinker.

Rosie, my dad warned me on the phone, this place is full of Mother Fu…. s.

What did your father just say, my lovely man asked.

I was surprised once by a monkey in Umdloti I informed him. This may be what I called it… It’s become a family joke.

(Just as an aside, we’d only been in Tshipise five minutes and the MF’s stole all our padkos as we were unpacking).

Sadly, I am never able to leave my work behind, so I diligently found a little corner to set up my mobile office (and my Starlink, bless that Elon fellow).

A few days into our break I asked my lovely man to please go down to the resort shop and buy me some surgical spirits to clean my mouse.

My father opted to take a stroll with my lovely man.

What does she need my father asked him. She needs to clean her mouth he replied. What’s wrong with her mouth? Is it because she’s got a potty mouth? Probably, I don’t really ask my lovely man replied, but I think she’s got blisters.

(I am not making this up).

They arrived back with a small bottle of savlon. We couldn’t find mouth wash they advised, we thought about soap, but the lady said if you dilute this, it will help.

So, I cleaned my mouse… and my mouth with savlon. Because… if life hands you lemons…

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Yes, there’s someone in here

I needed to use the restroom at a restaurant the other day.

The only free stall had, of course, a faulty lock.

So, not only did I have to do my business hovering three inches above the seat… Because you know, public toilets… I had to do it with one leg stretched out straight to keep the door shut.

I must mention this acrobatic accomplishment whenever anyone accuses me of being sedentary.

It was at the Spur if you must know, so there was 💯 chance a toddler was going to barge in otherwise and leave the door wide open in their wake.

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, my buttock developed a cramp.

I may have wailed loudly. I may also have missed the bowl.

Not my best experience.

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Stick to the script

Generally, I consider myself quite compliant. I’m not much of a rebel or rule breaker.

Occasionally I go off the rails. With some spectacular results.

An example…

Some years ago I decided that I could leave one country on one passport and enter the next on a different passport. Who knew this is not allowed? Actually everyone… Including me.

My actions in this regard may or may not have had something to do with not wanting to pay visa costs.

Perfectly legal of course.

I got away with this three times and then I was hauled into the back office for interrogation.

The fellow was delighted to lecture me at length. Despite my sincere apologies and explanation. I had to, of course, produce my second passport because he asked me if I had been loitering on the bridge between the two countries for some months. I had not.

He felt it necessary to go through every page of each passport and examine each stamp. It became tiresome.

What do we need to do, I asked, to be able to move on from this and get on with life?

This irked him surprisingly.

Are you travelling alone he asked?

No, I said my husband and dogs are in the car wondering where the hell I am.

You, he informed me, are too British, let me talk to your husband.

Darling, I said, I lied and told that man you are my husband, also he said he’ll sort this matter that I’ve now been caught out on, with you, because I’m too British.

What does that mean even he asked? I think it means get this cheeky bitch out of my face.

My lovely man has never really let me forget this and now considers himself the better negotiator.

Whenever we have a situation to negotiate however, we discuss the plan. This is Africa. One has to be prepared.

We go in, I always think, on the same page, with the plan clearly laid out.

Inevitably, he goes off script half way through and says something gobsmacking.

We scramble through somehow. A fair amount of sweat rolling down my face considering the unexpected overshare of information.

And then he looks at me smugly… Just as well I was with you to help, he reminds me, they probably thought you were too British.

Love him.

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Yes, I’m a bit risk averse

What is your risk appetite?

Let’s talk in terms of electric blankets. An international measure no doubt.

In Beira, even in winter, there is not really a high electric blanket demand. I came from Johannesburg to Beira with a 40 foot container of household contents. Where those electric blankets are is anyone’s guess.

In Harare, an electric blanket in winter is nice. My lovely man LOVES his electric blanket. Sleeps with it on all night. For a good few seasons my side of the electric blanket has not worked. This winter, with the help of trusty Take a Lot (and they do from me for sure), I rectified this.

When I depart the lounge for my shower and bed (trailed by several animals of course), I go to each side of the bed to switch the electric blankets on.

Zimbabwe, as an aside, seems to have sorted out their electricity problems. Can you believe it? We mostly have electricity in Zimbabwe at the moment and Mozambique has long been stable. South Africa could learn a thing or two.

Of course, there is a general election in Zimbabwe next month. So, we all expect to be switched off again after that shit show.

Anyway….. My lovely man’s side is always already on when I go to switch it on. I estimate that it takes about 10 minutes for the electric blanket to heat the bed. I also estimate he turns it on about 4pm.

Not taking any chances that lovely man.

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Just as you are… Not

My lovely man watched me doing my face the other day. Applying face powder actually. As one does.

What’s that for, he enquired.

This stuff, I said, is what makes me beautiful.

At this point, I waited expectantly, with love in my heart. Because, really isn’t it an opportunity for a compliment?

Insert anything, even if not sincere or true. Recognise the gap and act.

What does my lovely man say?

‘You better order some more’

Honestly.

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I’m saving it for a rainy day

I am a compulsive saver of information received.  Electronically at least. If I have a hard copy of it, I’m likely to throw it in the bin.  But!  If you email me something I’m going to bloody file it see.

Terrabytes and terrabytes of Dropbox. 

At one point this was completely out of hand.  I convinced myself that one day someone was going to be looking for something and I would be able to raise my hand and say ‘I have that filed!’  Literally, I could save the world and be adored.

That New24 2011 article or the BancABC 2014 exchange rate would be dug up and the relief would be palpable. 

So far, it’s only my old dad and my lovely man tapping into this extraordinary, somewhat compulsive behaviour of mine.  And I am frazzled and out of time and NOT adored by all as expected,

So, screw you all, I’m deleting shit. 

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It’s over there already

Have you been in your relationship forever, and also lived in the same house forever?

Sadly, my lovely man and I have not. None of the above. And currently we run two households, in two different countries.

This results in us pondering where things are. And often we will say ‘but I had one of those, where is it now……’ Anyone’s guess really.

In recent weeks, this debate turned to a vegetable rack. Fond memories of various vegetable racks owned (and clearly now missing), by both of us ensued.

Bottom line… We are without vegetable rack.

So, I asked at a seemingly well stocked supermarket if they sold vegetable racks.

Affirmative… They sent me to a section of the supermarket. I found a lot of vegetables, no vegetable rack.

Three times this happened. I asked three different assistants and was always sent to the same place. Vegetables (and fruit), no vegetable rack.

I was bemoaning my story of woe to the lady that does our hair.

What is alarming, she said, is that you fell for this three times and went back to the fruit and vegetable section. Three times.

Anyway, I’m looking for a new hair lady.

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That’s gonna sting

Personal grooming is a thing isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be quite liberating to let it all go? Certainly one way to trend on social media. 

All kinds of unwanted hair, and no sign of us evolving to no longer produce it as a species.

It’s quite big business. Other people removing it for you I mean. Bless them, can that be considered a calling? I ponder if this is discussed at school career days. Or does it come up as an option when one does an aptitude test? 

You are a natural for back, sack and crack maintenance. 

But, it’s all quite time consuming isn’t it?  So, sometimes neglected.

Recently I realised something had to be done. Home job time. 

So, on the way into the shower, I grabbed my lovely man’s shaving foam. 

When I was relaying the story, he immediately asked if I had also grabbed his razor. 

Certainly the fight would start depending on whom, and where, a shaving rash developed. 

Except it wasn’t his shaving foam. I liberally sprayed myself yonder, with Brut deodorant.

Not recommended.

An easy mistake considering the cans are next to each other, and a lovely lingering, somewhat manly, odour.

Aptitude fail really.