From the Press

In today's Times, there is an article that compares the number of white and other (colour, I suppose) kids in primary schools in Britain today. There is actually a graph that shows these statistics. Gasp. Can anybody imagine something like this occurring in a South African paper? I still occasionally reel from the free use of descriptions like 'a Pakistani man' or 'a black man' in the press over here.

In South Africa this has become a big a no-no, the reporters mostly referring to persons. In this article of South Africa's edition of the Mail and Guardian, there are bodies, men and women all over the place. Note the absence of colour, race or anything else that might state the obvious. (I'm surprised they're still differentiating between genders - somebody should put a stop to this!)

The UK press has never avoided their duty of calling a spade a spade, in fact, spadecalling has been developed into an exquisite art. A blush-inducing art, believe me.
Calling attention to the fact that many UK state schools are rapidly filling up with non-white. non-British children, is statement of a fact. In South Africa it would be considered racist.

And South Africans have just become very adept at reading between the lines.

Accidental animals

It's been two weeks since the big bang, and life is settling into a new rhythm. Each morning Duan wakes up before me, and I get to snuggle my head deeper into the pillow for a few more dreams. At some point he serves me with a steaming mug of decaf coffee and a bowl of porridge. My acquiescence that it is indeed morning, and time to wake up, is to prop myself higher on the pillow (grunting and huffling, not everyday that you break a bone in your back) and grab the mug. And, of course, give my angel husband a nice, big kiss.

Our room looks out on a miniscule back yard with a tree from which our bird feeder is suspended. Our squirrel-proof bird feeder that attracts an agreeable assortment of birds and one very crazy squirrel. We were woken one morning by what sounded like an old Marlboro smoker in lung therapy choking on a fish bone.
Uaghk. Uaaaghk. Uuaaghk.
It was our squirrel, hanging onto the feeder and barking to all birds, beasts and other creatures that this was, from now on, HIS patch.

People from over here don't understand how we get so excited at the sight of a rabbit or a squirrel. I mean, we have the big five, right? But in Pretoria you rarely see wild-ish animals in your back yard. They get eaten. Although...now I'm really thinking about it...I've seen recipes for squirrel stew, and this guy, Fergus Drennan, will eat, literally, anything. (For advice on roadkill cuisine, read his blog on the subject.)

For now, our mad squirrel is safe.

Here are a few squirrels for thought. Neither of them are ours, who hates the paparrazzi.

Accidental musings

I was in an accident. The words seem so innocuous...such a cliché...until the day it happens to you.

At the start of my lovely daily commute,there is about 1 mile of cycle route that happens in traffic. This is legal and fair, and at 7:30 am you'd think there's not much traffic around, right?

There I was, obediently signalling to the left in order to exit the roundabout, and from the corner of my eye a huge, grey blurb moved closer, and closer...ta-dum...ta-dum...a modern-day Jaws...and bang - I went flying. What an absurd moment. It happens so slowly and yet too fast to do anything about it. Sailing through the air, I screeched like a harpy; the sound transposing into a stretched out yelp as we (my bike and I) slid across the asphalt.

My first reaction was absolute, red-hot, straight-from-hell, dripping FURY. But then the pain made itself known, like an unwelcome salesperson persisting at your door.

'Knock, knock.'
'Who's there?'
'Pain.'
'Pain who?'
'From this moment, your constant compainion!'

I left a few things back on the tarmac. A trust that a motorist would see a pink neon-clad cyclist on huge purple bicycle in the
prime position on a bright morning with no other traffic around. A bit of skin. A tad of ego.
But I am alive, in one moving piece, and VERY grateful for that.

PS: On a sober note, according to this brilliant (yet belated, in my case) article on the Cycling Plus website, bikeradar,
this is the rule of the road:

Stay alert, follow the traffic rules, stay alert, look out for HGVs and stay alert.

Accidentals

On Monday, 10 September, at 7:35am, I was bumped by car on my way to school. See what happens if you gloat...
A single vertebra, L2, was crushed. Fortunately, it was a stable break, and I was released from hospital after two nights to recuperate at home.

I am still in shock. And not in the mood to write, but I thought I'd let you know.

Daily commute

I thought I would like to make all my readers (in my mind you are BILLIONS) seriously envious by giving a short description of my daily cycle commute. Sigh, I know, I know.

I belong to the smug group who cycle to work. I am doing it more for my bum and less for the planet, so South Park can leave me alone. (I am referring to the brilliant episode of South Park in which Stan convinces his entire town to buy hybrid cars...)

But another reason for commuting to work is because, here in lovely Scotland, I can. I am safe from hijackers, muggers, dangerous predators and other taxis, and I have a cycle route that delivers me safely from my door to the mechanised entrance of the school. Here is the evidence:

1. The moment just before I get on my bicycle.


2. View of the downhill and only serious uphill on my way to school.


3. The hill, up close and personal, with a couple of coo's hanging in the background.


4. First view of Dunfermline: Legoland, or its most recent suburb.


5. The Dunfermline skyline.


6. Destination.