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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.
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.
We’ve been invited to go on a houseboat for a few days.
Lucky hey?
Not so lucky is my recent gas problem.
I may find myself being thrown to the crocs.
I blame the detox I attempted. Downing 500ml of neat tabasco can play havoc with the guts.
Not recommended.
My lovely man has, so far, made no comment. Bless him. Isn’t he a treasure? He is hard of hearing thank goodness. Hopefully he also has a severe cold.
He has mentioned a few times how pleasant the (sunny) spare room looks at this time of the year. In this fridge of a house.
I’m not sure if there is a connection or if I’m invited.
I wouldn’t invite me. Lethal.
I am starting to suspect that I’ve actually died and my brain is just taking a while to catch up.
Because, you know, there are emails to answer.
I have been quite disciplined with my eating for some months, and dropped some weight.
But, in recent weeks, have failed somewhat.
So, to kick start myself back to good habits, I decided to do a detox programme I saw advertised.
The lady who promotes this and who kindly delivered my meals for the forseable future is indeed an advert for her product. Fabulously fit and toned. Arrived in skimpy shorts. Get inside I had to say to my lovely man.
Aren’t you cold I asked her, dressed like a polar bear myself. No, I’m just back from the gym she announced.
Of course. Also, I think she’s British. They don’t feel the cold do they?
You might get a slight headache as you are not allowed caffeine she announced.
Oh, I’m not worried, I told her, I’m not a big coffee or wine drinker. It’s quite nice, the fantasy in my head, I make the rules.
So, I diligently downed the first green smoothie thing and my lovely man observed my face and enquired if I was actually paying money to be this miserable.
One of the drinks seemed to be tomatoes and tabasco. I thought it might actually kill me.
How are you feeling my lovely man asked me in the morning. (After day one).
Well, I said, my weight is down, but I think I have a brain tumour and need you to take me to the hospital please.
Aaah, he said, you have a headache, should I bring you a coffee rather?
What I have learnt from this exercise :
I am not brave when in pain.
I would rather never eat again than face that tabasco smoothie.
I can, quite surprisingly, manage without wine, but am, it seems addicted to coffee.
My lovely man is of great support to me and does many (read all), of the household chores.
Don’t you want one? Get your own, this one’s mine.
He often uses my little car to run around in. It’s a ‘fuel saver’ vs a ‘ gas guzzler’.
The other morning we were having our pre-walk morning cuppa (and choccie biscuit) and he announced. ‘ I don’t think I took the shopping out of the car yesterday, let me check’.
I’m sure it’s all fine he continued a little later… I’ve put the chicken in the freezer, all good.
Darling, I said, I don’t think that’s clever, shouldn’t we throw that chicken away?
It’s for the dogs he said, I’m sure it will be fine. (I, of course, would take a bullet for my dogs, so this is NOT fine really).
I don’t get to drive my car, or any car very often. My lovely man is the designated driver as a rule. When we first started dating, he was very complimentary of my driving. Now that the honeymoon is over there are any number of suggestions, instructions, and pleas to Jesus for help when I drive.
But I had occasion (read boozy girls lunch), to go out by myself and lowered myself into my car and trundled off.
On my return, I asked my lovely man if it was my car that he had used when he went shopping and left the chicken in the car.
Yes, I think so, he said, it’s easier to park, why do you ask?
Because, darling, my car smells like something has died in it.
So now, not only do we have to empty the freezer of any chicken so that no-one in the household dies, I also have to sell or perhaps set alight my car.
Perhaps you can have him after all.
My lovely man is a bit hard of hearing.
The entire household seems to be, because certainly no one listens to me, including all the animals.
I am often reminded of a dear fellow that I worked with who informed me ‘ Rosie, your voice is pitched like a dog whistle, none of us have a chance.’
I digress.
On a recent morning walk, we were approached by some fellows who had saved a tortoise that was (slowly we presume), dodging the traffic. Precious little thing. Because this is Africa, we had to pay them and I carried the dear little thing triumphantly home.
I have always had a fondness for tortoises, and this little guy has now come into our lives! That’s how it happens with animals isn’t it?
I am likely to be lambasted because perhaps he’s exotic and we should not be looking after him. But I love him already. We’ll figure out for sure what the right thing to do is. Better in the garden than the traffic surely?
Let’s call him Tommy I suggested to my lovely man. How do you know he’s he, he asked. My sister, I advised him, said that male shells are more rounded, and female shells are flatter.
Oh, he said, how on earth would she know that, should I Google it too?
She’s quite smart I said, but yes, you can Google it.
What should I ask Google he asked me.
Ask Google ‘ How do I sex a tortoise’ I suggested.
There are no results, he advised somberly, for ‘ How do I text a tortoise’ , I think we are doing it wrong.
Don’t you just love him? I’m sure he does it on purpose to entertain me. He’s the best.
Tommy, it turns out, prefers the pronoun ‘ they ‘ .
My lovely man and I have a bit of an exercise routine. Nothing to get excited about, just a daily walk and a bit of stretching and Pilates. Not very far (the walk) and it’s chair Pilates.
Still, we are better off for doing it and quite smug about the effort.
I say routine, but we are easily jolted out of this routine for a variety of reasons (insert irrelevant excuse here), and then it takes some effort to get back into it.
Anyway, with enormous discipline we once again staggered off on our walk today after some weeks of abstinence.
But! This time I strapped some extra weight onto my ankles.
A friend I used to walk with has some of these ankle/wrist weights and I was greatly admiring of them, and her.
These are the reason she looks fabulous, and I look like shit I pondered.
So, I ordered some.
I am a great Take a Lot fan. I only recently discovered Take a Lot, but since then, am single handedly, I believe, keeping them afloat.
I use their services when I am in Zimbabwe. Via a runner. Also a recent discovery. I am clearly a late bloomer.
Very sadly, most goods in Zimbabwe are so horrifically overpriced that it is cheaper to shop this way. Illegally I mean. Don’t tell Al Jazeera.
This really, is all the excuse I need to shop. Cheaper. There should be a 12-step plan for Take a Lot.
Why have you ordered that my lovely man inquires after every delivery of goodies. Because it’s cheaper, I reply. But he continues, do we need it?
How irrelevant. Men.
When I ordered my wrist/ankle weights, I contemplated the 2kg pair. Luckily, I settled on 1kg an ankle really.
Are you ready to go my lovely man asked. Well, yes, I said, as soon as I find the strength to lift my weighted foot off this chair and put it on the ground again.
I’m not carrying those for you when you get tired, he warned. He’s not an idiot. He gives me a similar warning every time we go out and it’s a bit nippy. Take a jacket, I’m not giving you mine.
And then, of course, he does. Bless him. Not without some mutters.
Are you OK he asked as I gasped along on the walk. Sure, I replied, but I’m likely to need a double knee replacement.
I better end up as fabulous as my friend.
When we travel, the trusty Mandova looks after our animals.
Mandova has titled himself ‘Estate Manager’. We appreciate him greatly.
Because he is kind, and my dogs in particular, are needy, they sleep with him when we are away. He sends me videos of them in their little baskets in his bedroom.
My lovely man broods on this and intermittently suggests we try and get the pups to sleep in their baskets vs the bed. This results in me fretting all night that they are sad and getting up no less than six times in the night to take them off the bed and put them back in their baskets. When we wake up in the morning, after eventually falling into an exhausted sleep, everyone is on the bed anyway. It’s all pretty pointless and exhausting.
How do you keep the dogs off your bed my lovely man asked Mandova, exasperated. Oh, he says, they start off in their baskets, but when I wake up, they are both on the bed. Also, Bella snores.
Bless him.
Our Bella ensures we prove our love every day. Part of this requires us to carry her to bed. Years ago, I explained this to my lovely man when he asked where she was at bed time. He has a soft spot for her, so this has become his nightly duty. She doesn’t make it easy. Sometimes she hides herself in the garden for extra proof that she is loved. He sighs, switches off the alarm, tracks her down and carries her through. She accepts this adoringly, administors kisses, gets kisses back and he tucks her in next to him.
It’s these things that make me count my blessings people.
We are enjoying a few days at the magnificent Victoria Falls.
I know, so lucky.
Our resort offers a shuttle service into town. They don’t encourage you to walk too far around here because of the wild animals. Having said that, the locals walk everywhere. Out of necessity one presumes.
Anyway, after our boozy lunch (always), we caught the shuttle back.
There was a very attractive lady on the shuttle with us and then we stopped again and picked up Casanova. Himself.
Immediately he started harassing her for her details. Including phone number and room number.
Amazing.
So, when we arrived, we hung around a bit to escort her, as necessary, because of this unwanted and somewhat aggressive attention.
Later, when we were having a sundowner, we saw this young lady again and she thanked us for the help.
She was with her friends by now. (She made a point of telling us, perhaps she thought we would chase them off too).
Where are you from they asked us.
This question is almost as loaded as ‘what is your surname’. I am always confused by both and tend to ramble a bit.
Luckily my lovely man stepped in and explained that we were local. Zimbabwean.
Immediately we were regarded with deep suspicion. Which is normal. My lovely man never gets asked by a Zimbabwean if he is Zimbabwean. I braced myself for the inevitable.
She doesn’t sound like a Zimbabwean they stated, as expected, moving away slightly. She sounds like an South African. Also, they continued, it’s her hair. Very Pretoria. The one guy actually waving his hands around his head.
No good deed…
Nice though, he said as an afterthought.
Yes, I said, I lived in SA for a long time, I guess I picked up an accent.
Not being able to resist rambling, I further explained that, at one point, I even married into the Afrikaans tribe, but I wasn’t accepted. Voted out. The weakest link stuff.
They all nodded… Knowingly.
My lovely man just sighed and ordered another beer. Don’t start with the surnames please he muttered.
Is it just me, or has travel become a pain?
Because this is Africa, the rules are a moving target that are never quite fully disclosed. Sometimes your vaccination 💉 certificate is required, often not. Sometimes there is an interrogation around how many booster jabs have been had and how long ago. Mostly, nobody cares.
Also, because this is Africa, there is someone having a beer 🍻 at the airport. 6:30am. We don’t judge.
One thing that irks me with air travel, is the request to remove your shoes. I always forget this and wear difficult to remove shoes.
I have also had to surrender my tweezers at the scanner.
I will be boasting a uni brow in a few days.
Another irksome thing is the different baggage allowance based on destination. These, presumably, are based on union negotiations as to how much weight the baggage handler is prepared to lift. But as a result, one must plan around the lowest weight allowed on a staggered trip.
I can tell you for nothing that Cape Town need to gym it up.
Why would they not rather give you a total allowance and then a max per bag? To standardise worldwide?
Who knows?
I am, of recent, bucking the system and hoping no one weighs my hand luggage.
Because I have to carry my office with me when I travel, and I REALLY like working with multiple screens, I invested in some portable screens.
They are great, but not light.
My laptop bag weighs more than my suitcase.
If a plane I’m on goes down and they can’t figure out why, you can enlighten them. I am, far from light.
I know you have to carry your office with you when you travel darling, but I observe that I am the one actually hauling this bag around, my lovely man mentioned.
Yes darling, make sure you don’t indicate how heavy it actually is, or they may arrest you.