Mannequin Humour

Every time I see this pic, I laugh out loud. I don't know why it tickles my funny bone so much.

Perhaps it reminds me of an occasion where my Mam and I were walking down main street Dundee, Kwa Zulu Natal - South Africa.  We were chatting and I was in the lead (chatting, that is.  I wasn't in front of her.  We weren't power walking or running or anything silly like that).

Mam stopped suddenly and I looked at her to see why she had come to a sudden halt.  

She was pointing at the window of Truworths Ladies Fashion, doubled over, laughing so hard, she couldn't speak.  She was holding her belly with one hand, while gesturing me to look with her other. 

There was a line up of mannequins wearing the latest fashions.  The expressions on each of their faces were different.  Mannequins manufactured in the 1970s were dramatic like that.   Not like those pouty, alluring ones of today. 

The one that held my Mam's amusement and humour so much had what I can only describe as a gazed expression.  But with a wide open mouth - somewhat like the icon on Facebook that depicts "wow".  

The eyes didn't match the mouth.  

And to add more hysterical laughter (from both of us now), the short-bobbed blonde wig, styled with a block fringe was skew, covering one eye, while revealing the other and it's neighbouring hairless ear.  

I can't look at a mannequin without smiling....or thinking of my Mam.

Fun Pics from Days Long Gone...

The Machinist and I, and our first-born, Emma-Lee.  She won the Crawling Race and Best Dressed Baby of the Day

Helen and Emma-Lee - posing for the local newspaper, with runner-up baby. 

Will You Sponsor Me?

In the year 2000, my brother and his family arrived in Australia from South Africa. They were jobless and (almost) homeless - mainly due to the criminal activity prevailent in the current South African government. Their right of passage to the land of milk and honey was a 457 Business visa, as the Machinist and I had sponsored them.  Unfortunately, my brother could not meet the requirements (which change almost every six months) of the 457 visa and sadly (devastatingly so), they had to return to South Africa at about this time in 2004, which was the visa's expiration date.
You will understand, then, the whirlwind of emotions when I received this request through our business email:

To whom it may concern


I am a qualified Electrician with 20 odd years experience. I also have my Wireman's Lic. If I am lacking some experience I am a keen, quick learner.


We are currently living in South Africa. I run my own Contracting business for the last 16 years doing new house installations, upgrades to 3 phase, highbay industrial lighting, rennovations, lighting and general maintenance for homes, restaurants, gated complexes, etc. I am a perfectionist in my field and have excellent client liason skills.

We had a Sponsor and were meant to leave in January for Perth but the contract was cancelled due to the economic crisis. Are you in a position to Sponsor me? We would love to relocate to Australia. If you can offer any help or advice it would be greatly appreciated. If given the opportunity I would be loyal, hard working and give of my best at all times. I would like to give my family the safety, security and all the opportunities that Australia offers. I would need to do my Trade Assesment once in Australia because you have to apply for that particular state and not knowing where I shall get a job makes it difficult to do beforehand.

I look forward to hearing from you.


Kind regards, X

Thoughts on Earlier Days

My thoughts of late have been towards the plight of the migrant.  Leaving England as a child and migrating to South Africa, was far different to leaving South Africa and migrating to Australia as an adult and parent.  Although many people live in places where climate and weather patterns are extreme and where  creatures and 'odd' traditions are commonplace, it is nonetheless overwhelming for some migrants, who have lived "protected" lives away from such things. To leave one's family and move to a strange land is traumatic enough. To face additional conditions which are shocking and dangerous can sometimes lend a migrant to utter despair

While in South Africa, if there was a snake around our homestead,  I would be the first to discover the snake. It was a known and accepted fact in our family. Rinkhals, cobras, mambas, puff adders and boomslangs. I've 'met' them all! And each time, mam would calm me down after the encounter, even though she herself was just as afraid.


In the dry creeks of the farms we lived on, we also encountered legavaans - similar to the monitor lizard, that become quite angered for no reason, it seemed.

One swish of their tail would put those of a slighter build on their back. Deadly scorpions would sometimes leave the rocks of the dry creek beds and venture into the brick crevices of the old farmhouses. My brothers would catch them and tease them. I still shudder thinking of the way their tails would curl over and twitch, ready to strike!  I am still wary of opening a box of matches which may be hanging around the house, because of what may be inside.

I can't help but wonder in awe at the enduring spirit of the earlier migrants, who ventured on - despite many hardships which our modern day systems could now overcome. In the Australian outback there are numerous graves, belonging to unfortunate folk who were bitten by some strange creeping or slithering creature, unable to either reach hospital care on time or receive efficient care or antidotes. There are those graves hosting folk whose constitution just couldn't cope with extreme climatic conditions either. Especially the finer ladies and children.  (A recent movie I enjoyed was "Jessica" - based on a novel by Bryce Courtenay - depicting the difficult life of early Australians).

And those who did survive have now become the great-grandmothers of our relatively young nation. Their letters and memoirs are recorded in our history books. I wonder if it ever crossed their minds that they would be instrumental in forming the grand nation we have today.

Universal Soldier

Many years ago, my oldest brother, Alan left home to join the British army.  He signed up for two years yet his recruitment lasted seven years.  I can only remember seeing him once in that time.  We had driven to London to watch him in some sort of parade.  I can't remember much about our visit with him, but I remember an awful lot about a brown paper bag (or two) in the back of my Aunt Mary's car, and the mess I made splattered on her car doors before I was given the paper bags. 

During the course of Alan's seven year stint, my parents moved us to South Africa.  They hadn't intended for us to stay, but rather, as my dad had assured my mam, "...We're going on a holiday of a lifetime ..."  What started as a holiday, ended up a lifetime, as the six month return tickets my father had purchased expired and we were living on a farm with 3000 chickens just outside a small village called "Wasbank".

When Alan's time in the army came to an end, he joined us in South Africa.  We often joke that you can take the man out of the army, but not the army out of the man.  Although we are miles apart, I am delighted that because of technology and Facebook,  I can still stay in touch with our Universal Soldier.

Alan (holding rifle) in Ireland fighting IRA - early seventies. 

Alan (second from right) - in Ireland fighting IRA - early seventies

Contemplations

It's hard to think that in a month and a few weeks we'll be opening a pie shop in a small country village in rural Australia. From my humble beginnings in a street full of semi detached houses in the Midlands of England to what could seem, to many British folk - the middle of nowhere.

Obviously, the wilds of Africa weren't enough adventure for one lifetime...

Sometimes, Grandpa gets into a pensive mood and reflects on whether he did the right thing by uprooting his family from Old Blighty soil. I always like to remind him that had he not, we would have been born, raised and probably die in the same house in the same street... a thought I couldn't even contemplate.

Besides, I would never have met the Machinist and had the wonderful family I have today.


I'm thankful for my father's itchy feet...

A Farmer Makes A Plan

Two of my four brothers still live in South Africa. Various types of crime are committed every day, several times a day against many South Africans, irrespective of race and colour. A shop owner in Johannesburg , South Africa , was tired of people breaking into his yard/shop so he came up with the idea of shaving his dog like a lion. Everyone in SA recognises a lion, and now he has no problem with thugs! South African ingenuity - we call it "'n Boer maak 'n plan" (A Farmer makes a plan).

Welcome to South Africa; When Reality Hits

It was our first home in a new land. A humble 6 birth caravan, situated several kilometres out of town, on land that was once arable. Within a week of our arrival, a crowd of children were gathered near the ruins of an old stone barn on the grounds of the caravan park. Loud deliberation drew me nearer and as I approached, the sickened bellowing of a terror-stricken beast became audible. I edged through the crowd and before me was a large bull, tied with a chunky rope, yet still squirming. Every so often, the bull would take a lunge for freedom. Then another. And another. Realising that escape wasn't imminent, the bull began to paw the hard ground before him and snort. Cloudy puffs of nerve-breath pulsed from his nostrils.

Suddenly, a loud, authoritive voice behind me. “Move beck, now, ok?”

With this, the stranger motioned with his hand for the crowd to move away from the ruin. A mass exodus inched back, not too far, though, as prevailing curiosity is often a strong need to be filled. Furthermore, the stranger wasn’t telling us to go.. We just had to move back…

“Go on, move beck!” We moved back some more, like a choreographed troupe.

The stranger lifted his other arm and positioned the butt of a rifle, cradle-style in his neck. He aimed at the writhing bull. Silence. The stranger was standing very still. Then, slowly, his finger squeezed the trigger….

It only took one shot. The bull swayed from side to side. There was a gasp, and several cries from behind me. The once whitewashed walls of the old barn drew my attention: splatters and streaks of bright red blood, starkly shocking, defaced the aged patina. Then, as the bovine carcass thudded to the floor, a semi distorted mass of muscle and sinew, I realised what I had witnessed.

I had witnessed a slaughter.

Summer-Brown Berry Coolie

We've had intense heat for over a week now. Unfortunately, outdoor chores don't stop, just because Mr Sun decides to turn up the heat. I'm convinced that the best way to face outdoor chores in the heat is to get up early, start work in the coolness of the day, to enable the body to get accustomed to the temperature as it soars.

Mam commented on how brown I am becoming. "... As brown as a berry..." she says. I've always wondered "What type of berry?".
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When we first arrived in South Africa from England, we lived on a caravan park for a while. Most of the families in the caravan park were Afrikaaner families with lots of children. I couldn't, at that early stage communicate verbally with the children, but I would run barefoot throughout the park with them. It was summertime, and the heat didn't affect me as it does now. Lots of sun, and swimming and before long, mam was saying "...you're as brown as a berry, Pooch..." **Poochie is my pet name**

I was starting to get the feeling that my newfound, non-verbal friends didn't want to play with me suddenly, and I didn't know why. Then one day, as I was running and laughing, an Afrikaaner child chasing me to 'tip' me asked -

"Are you a Coolie?"
"A Coolie? What's that?"
"Ag, jy weet..." (Oh, you know)
"What?"
"An Indian"
"No, I'm an English woman"
"Jy's nie a Coolie nie?" (You're not a Coolie?)
"No!"
"Okay...."

And even though apartheid loomed over us, from then on, I got my friends back again...

PS - the title of this post sounds like a cool refreshing drink for a hot summer's day...

Summers Past

This month is supposed to be the last month of summer in Australia. My thoughts today are of summer days in South Africa, as I was growing up. It was a shock to the system to leave the icy cold of Britain, straight into the heat of Africa. At first, we could hardly breath in the hot air. It was like sitting in front of the hearth with your mouth open, inhaling the radiant heat from the open fire. A complete meltdown.

Our family would often exclaim ".. i'n't it 'ot..", as we passed each other throughout the house. It became a family mantra. One would think you would tire of saying it, but no. Like most things in life, though, you eventually get used to it.

Those early days in a strange land were spent on a number of farms, in different directions - just out of, but surrounding a small town in Natal. Most of them had 'Kraals' on them; homes to the domestic and farm staff that worked on the land or in the farmhouse. These workers were always happy, contented people, who smiled a lot and sang a lot. They would dance, too, on their way down from the hill, through the dry creek bed, up to the homestead for each day's labour. Their children would sometimess accompany them.

At that time in South Africa, apartheid reigned, and the white children were forbidden to speak with the black children. Our family never observed this, though. The black people were human beings; with different lifestyles and customs, but they laughed, cried, bled and died, just like we did. The Bantu children taught me Zulu ditties, and would chuckle with glee when I sang them in my British accent. We hardly understood each other's language, but we laughed hard and often.

A popular African singer in the 1970's was Margaret Singana. Her smile alone could light up the veld (field). Here she is, singing Mama Thembu's Wedding Night. Take it away, Margaret