Things I am thankful for

I am thankful for PS22 Chorus who sings with such freedom and enthusiasm, and that there are still inspiring music teachers hidden in the state school system.

I am thankful for my son's laughter which makes me happy beyond belief. I am grateful that motherhood is like a shoe made from real leather; something that you worm your way into slowly, until it fits, even though the process is sometimes painful.

I am thankful for the concoction of extraordinary elements that constitute Loch Leven: fresh air and vivid blue waters from the tap in the sky, framed by solemn braes with highland coos and other beasties frolicking about.

I am grateful for people who are kind without trying to be, for strangers who change your flat tyre without making you feel like an idiot, and for living in a village where niceness is not a cliche.

I am thankful for this breath, in this moment.

Second-class citizens

Anybody who's ever had to move from a third-world country to a first-world country will say the same thing: you get treated like a second-class citizen. I'm trying to write this with not too much bitterness, because in the end I'm grateful that we have the opportunity to be able to live here, and raise our son here. That's the official line.

But let's be honest: most migrants from a country like South Africa are either highly skilled and/or qualified, or very young, keen and able to work harder and longer than most - because we're so desperate to stay. And it is a slap in the face cold dose of reality when you arrive here and realise that you have to begin at the bottom again. It doesn't matter that you're already in possession of an excellent education and top-notch degree (paid for by the apartheid regime), that you have experience working for some of the best schools or companies in South Africa, that you are in all respects a first-class citizen, whatever that may mean over here: you have to start all over. I have had to contend with jobs in the UK that are far below my abilities, education and experience, and be thankful that I got it in the first place. I know a migrant with a Chemistry degree working in a care-home; another an ex-headteacher of a prestigious private school who will have to cpmplete one more year of study before she is 'allowed' to teach in junior high school. And we are South Africans - I can't imagine how bad it must be if you're from Tonga. (Lolohai Tapui, good for you on employing hiring Max Clifford to handle your media profile, nail the media for more, say £200 000, per interview.) To make matters worse, the government is now submitting proposals to make it even harder for immigrants to become legal citizens, extended from 6 years to 8 or 11 years, depending on your willingness to do community work. I can understand and agree with proposals to stop unskilled and illegal migrants, but why punish hard-working, desperately-trying-to-do-the-right-thing migrants in the process?

To add insult to injury, I am further shocked by the lack of knowledge about immigrant rights by well-educated Brits: no, we do not qualify for any benefits and no, we receive no childcare benefits and no, our baby has to get a South African passport because he is not automatically a citizen just by being born here. We do get free healthcare on the NHS, but we've been paying proper council tax and other tax since we first arrived.

Why don't you just go back to South Africa? Because there we don't have a justification for being treated like second-class citizens.

My in-laws and other animals

My husband's family recently reunited in the centre of our worlds which is more or less Scotland. Like many South Africans, they are dispersed all over the planet and for many people, admittedly, this might be a blessing, but not for us. We like them, and we had the whole zoo here for almost three weeks (with the exception of my father-in-law, who was here in spirit). Just to give you an idea, here follows a short introduction to the menagerie:

My mum-in-law is a badger, always scurrying about doing this or that. I was eternally grateful for the help in the house - as one tends to be with a small baby and guests - and she was just wondeful. Like a typical badger, she enjoys solitude and is fiercely protective of her family. Badgers feature frequently in English fiction, usually as a well-loved character. Well, my mum-in-law might not be in the books, but she is certainly all over them.

My husband says he is a panda. Panda?! was my shocked response. Of all the animals in the world, why a panda? Because they are mystical, endangered and extremely good looking, came his cool reply. After a bit of research on Wikipedia, he still seems un-panda like: he eats everything, is a committed partner and will hibernate if that was humanly possible. He is the picture of docility, unless irritated.

My brother-in-law, who lives in America, considers himself an eagle. He is excessively observant, but from a distance, and will swoop down on unsuspecting cuddly animals. (My cats are still fine.) He has a softer side, hidden under a well-preened exterior - preening being something of a male quirk in the family. Eagles have the unfortunate tendency to kill weaker siblings, maybe that is why my husband chose to be a panda.

My other brother-in-law is still living in South Africa, and he is a cat; either a glorious growling lion or a playful Balinese as the mood fits. Curious and fond of attention, he likes to explore and manoeuvre into the highest perch in a room or down the most impossible hole. He is also very picky about who he belongs to and not the other way around. And he digs lots of holes in the ground, but not for that!

My sister-in-law, who hails from America, is a cat, but she defnitely wants to be a pet. She shares many of the characteristics of an American shorthair: moderate temperament, not too active or too lazy, and she is a wonderful companion to live with. But don't be fooled by the calm exterior: she has a tough hide and some sharp claws.

And then there is my father-in-law, the monkey. Restless and sharp as a tack, he is entertaining and very proud of his tribe. I'm in fact grateful that he stayed in one place long enough to breed such an impressive bunch. He loves stories and food but thankfully has impeccable table and other manners.

I am avoiding myself, and my family, which is a tale for another rainy day. Which in Scotland might be later this afternoon.

Disclaimer (Thank you, Bennie, for the inspiration and outline)
The writer of this e-mail message accepts no responsibility for the actions of Gordon Brown, Jacob Zuma, the Lehman Brothers or Sisters, the Axis of Evil, or for any unexpected pregnancies. The writer is not responsible for those who are not responsible. This message may not be copied, forwarded, stolen, hijacked or duplicated by any other means without a bribe being paid to the sender. Failure to comply will lead to your personal details being handed to Microsoft, the Illuminati, Readers Digest, Susan Boyle, the National Association of Tele-marketers and Haas Das se Nuuskas. This message has been declared swine flu-free and fair. No rain forests were intentionally damaged or animals kicked in the compilation or transmission of this message.
And please don't ban me from the family.

Luscious Loch Leven

We live about ten minutes away from Loch Leven. It ranks high among my favourite places in Scotland, and the more time I spend cycling, driving or walking around it, the more I'm drawn in by its compelling beauty.

Loch Leven has something for every taste and interest. We love cycling and the recently opened Loch Leven Heritage Trail provides a perfect opportunity for a few hours of traffic-free pedalling. Or lazy walks, if that tickles your fancy. The path is of consistent excellent quality and it is flat for the entire way. On sunny days you bump into all kinds: I screeched to a halt the other day when I saw a rhodesian ridgeback. This one had no ridge, and his owner told me the breeders wanted to get rid of it, and he rescued the puppy.

Vane Farm belongs to the RSPB and it is a bird-lover's mecca. I'm a complete ignoramus where birds are concerned, after two years in Scotland barely able to distinguish a goose from a moose, but this place has me bristling with excitement. In the coffee shop with spectacular views over the loch, one can feed on organic grub food and excellent coffee, all the while learning more about birds of a certain feather. The shop stocks all kinds of bird paraphernelia, including live worms, and it's a good place to buy gifts.

What gets me most about Loch Leven, though, is its history. Every time my eye catches the ruins of the castle in which Mary Queen of Scots was held hostage, I'm reminded that she must have looked out over the same waters and stared at the same hill while blethering with her servants and working on a tapestry. Or maybe she made use of the sultry spring light to convince George Douglas to help her escape. I wonder whether she appreciated the beauty or was just worried as she wrote letters to her baby son from her lonely window post. This is the wonder of Loch Leven.

I'm BAAAAAACK!

Since my last post, a few things have happened.

1. I have had a baby, with a donation from my husband;
2. My spelling has deterioraetd;
3. Obama is now president of the United States, and Zuma (not Gwen Stefani's son) is president of South Africa.

My lack of posts is due to the overwhelming nature of points one and two. Sometimes things are so momentous that you suffer from an overload of material and thus, silence.

We are having the most wonderful Summer here in the kingdom.

As a South African I thought I'd be able to cope with heat but I seem to have lost that ability. Each morning I stand in confusion in front of my extensive winter and autumn wardrobe, and don't know what to wear. The small pile of summery clothes are being worn to extinction and being a pessimist realist about the weather, I don't want to spend on garments that might be worn seldom in future. Sort of trying not to jinx it. The weather is wonderful for the baby, who now has the freedom to stick his bare toes into his mouth without a sock to contend with. And of course everybody is complaining about the sunshine, which further illustrates that us humans are never happy. Or that contentment is independent of context. But that is a matter for another day, I have to go and weed...

Paris

We have been to Paris. I would like to roughly paraphrase Descartes:

'I have been to Paris, therefore I think, therefore I am.'

The magnificence of the city is overwhelming. Strange enough, this has been my second visit to Lutetia - the ancient name of Paris - and ten years ago it did not impress me as much. Maybe it's like good red wine which needs some maturity to be appreciated. Appreciated we did, and we've more or less decided to make it an annual trip for clothes shopping and much-needed artistic inspiration.


Paris excerts a gentler pressure than its cousin, London. In Londres I've always felt the frantic urge to create something formidable, to assert myself and do amazing things. In Paris I felt inspired to be creative in a way as gentle and urgent as the aquamarine waters of the Seine snaking its way through the suburbs...ok. ok....I'm getting carried away - I'll admit, the water is a murky shade of aquamarine. Coming from Pretoria where the grandest person-made structure is the Union Buildings, and with a tiny Museum of Modern Art, the grandeurs of Paris are wonderful to behold.


A few most refreshing things about Paris are the following:
1. An endless supply of outstanding quality croissants for breakfast, in a pretty standard hotel.
2. The almost total lack of Amreican shops and influences on the high streets.
3. The absence of yobbos
4. How incredibly chic everybody was.

...a very chic resident...

Friends, neighbours and countrymen, lend me your shears

We love our neighbours, Dave and Sandra. They are borderline eccentrics with a dollop of individuality and humanity added to the mix. Dave belongs to the famous McCrae-clan who owns this wee castle:



But just before you get excited and think we've hit the big time, the McCrae family is huge - 14-children-in-one-family huge. Dave has amazing memories of visiting the castle as a bairn (child) with his extended family and it seems like a magical bairnhood. Sandra comes from Germany and is an all-round great girl. She once invited us for tea on a Sunday afternoon and we dragged our stuffed selves home just after 9pm!

They are considerate. For example, their house attaches on the other side to a house that the newly arrived South African clan would like to buy. (We're thinking of establishing our own little kingdom in the kingdom that is Fife, bespoke tartan included.) In any case, they're graciously keeping prospective buyers away by frightening off those who come to look. One time a viewing couple was standing in the garden and Titus, Dave and Sandra's adorable German Shepard, chose that exact moment to poke his head through the hedge. The woman gave a shriek and they were never heard of again - she had a dog phobia.

Dave works for the council and we make fun of each other's working habits. Yesterday I was working in the garden and he sauntered out, Titus in tow.
'A-ha! I see yer not working! What are ye doing at home?!' He asked mischievously.
'I'm on holiday, duh! Why are you not working today?!' I asked.
'My lift's wife is pregnant, and she went into labour a bit early, so the work said I should sit tight, they'll let me know if they need me today,' he added cheerfully.
'You lucky b**%%%,' shouted Duan through the window, still in his pyjamas at 9:30 am.

Deli delicious

Scottish cuisine enthusiasts will be happy to know that the most culinary city out of London is, in fact, the Scottish capital. Edinburgh was consistently rated as "very good" or "exceptional" by regular diners in the city according to 90,000 independent reviews compiled to make the Harden's 2007 UK Restaurant Guide.

In a nutshell, the real reason why I've moved to Scotland. I'm no particular lover of Scottish cuisine, but the first time we visited Edinburgh I couldn't help but notice the assortment of really excellent eateries. And unassuming-looking deli, Valvonna & Crolla is the bee's knees.



We'll find any excuse to scratch the itch that is Valvonna £ Corlla. The shop itself is filled to the brim (walls included) with mostly Italian delicacies - tins of authentic pomodoro tomatoes, an assortment of pastas to die for, Amaretti biscuits, whole hams and salamis, rows of bottles of pristine olive oil (always with a bit in a small container to have a taste), freshly baked wonderbreads, and the award-winning wine collection. And this is only the deli! They also have a shop with kitchen utensils and other gems which is turned into a theatre during the Edinburgh Art Festival. Next to the Caffè Bar is an enviable collection of cookery books - causing uncontrollable oozings of saliva.



We make a point of taking friends to the place, with great results. The menu is impeccably stylish, the food fresh and just enough to satisfy. They graciously suggest wine to go with each meal, including dessert. I took my sister in law who loves good food and the whole dining experience to the point of getting tears in her eyes. And that is exactly what happened: over an antipasto of gently pickled olives, superb bread and genuine, GENUINE mozzarella di bufala, we had a weepy moment. They are also now living here.

This kingdom

Fife continues to be fascinating. It is a peculiar place, to say the least, and I decided to do some digging into its history.

This is where Fife is situated


Fife is old, real old. It is at once close to Edinburgh but the Firth of Forth, or big river mouth, has kept it isolated from the influences of the capital. Fife is also a peninsula, creating further distance between Fifers and the rest of Scotland, and consequently Fifers developed a reputation for being obstinate and keeping their distance. In 1964 the majestic Fourth Road Bridge opened, replacing the ferry system that has been in place since the 11th century. There are still some inhabitants grumbling about the bl**** brêdgie!



As the word spread of this beautiful region so close to Edinburgh, Glasgow and Perth, property has become highly sought after and it's been filling up with ootsiders like never before. An old woman, who's been living here for 25 years, tells me she is still considered a stranger!

In 1975, when all the Scottish counties were abolished for administrative purposes. Fifers, in their straightforward yet determined way, insisted on staying a kingdom. We have no king, but kingdom it is.

Snow starved

'SNOW!! SNOOOOOOWWWWWW! Wow! WOAAAAAAOOOOUUUHHHW!'
Rang out the voices of two families of snow-deprived South Africans, on the magical day that the white stuff finally descended on our town. Our neighbours thought we were crazy. There was not even one cm worth of snow lying on the ground, and the flakes falling intermittently melted before one could say 'Rudolph the red nosed, drunken piece of animal,' but we were jumping up and down inside the house before rushing outside to engage in delirious snow fights.





A sure way of identifying South Africans in Scotland.

I was disturbed the other day, however, by how much we've acclimatised to our environment. My husband and I went on a trip to London, and in the process lost our quite expensive digital camera. Disturbed not because we lost it, but because we're not really that bothered about the loss: we'll just get another one. Have we, with our valuable pounds, become careless consumers?

Familiar animals

My brother, his wife and my adorable two nieces, Emma and Anja, have arrived in Scotland. They form part of an apparent tsunami of South Africans with young kids who've come to see whether the grass is in fact greener on this side of the ocean. So far, they have not been disappointed.

The first week was spent in shell shock due to the cold climate and being squeezed into our humble Kelty abode. Another shock is how little their South African rands are worth, sjym, we look at something costing £7 and say 'That's cheap!' and their internal calculators go whizzz...brrrr...times14...THAT'S BLOODY EXPENSIVE! Maybe Christmas is not the best time of year to emigrate, but I think they've noticed and will never do it again.

The kids adore the parks. In Aberdour, which has a state-of-the-art kid's playpark, Emma declared it to be the best park ever, and they did not want to leave. Until we walked around the stunning Loch Ore and they discovered the playpark there, with a foefie slide! Anja declared that Scottish parks are much better than South Africa's - hear-hear!

No snow yet, but a round trip through the Cairngorm Mountains and Speyside made up for the disappointment. I love watching their reactions when seeing the fantastic scenery for the first time: the view of the bridges over the Firth of Forth; the sight of Edinburgh from the tiny road above Burntisland; the achingly green fields of Fife and, of course, the mountains.
Returning from our trip, my brother said: Do you realise we've seen half of Scotland in one day? Yep, so much to see in such a small space.

BEFORE

AFTER

Friends in Fife

I have been living in Fife now since March 2007, and I am still bowled over by the incredible friendliness of our neighbours and fellow Fifers. The first thing I noticed when we arrived here is that people actually greet you: in the shops, on your way to work, the postman as he delivers letters. In England I got used to being greeted by a middle finger on the road, or the most you got from fellow travellers on the trains/tube was an angry scowl or shove if you did something out of the ordinary. Initially I was a bit suspicious of this general goodwill - what's wrong with these people? Are they trying to sell me something or convert me to something? - but I've since come to accept this as just another good reason for living in Scotland.

As this news will bring a warm glow to the hearts and minds of my dear readers, I've decided to add just two more stories to remind of you of the extreme niceness of this place:

Story 1:
I arrived home on Monday to find two Christmas cards from different sets of neighbours, both welcoming us into the neighbourhood, and to have a happy Christmas.

Story 2:
The guy who sold us our new car phoned this morning to tell us he will drop off the extra set of keys at our place this afternoon.

A warm welcome, indeed.

The weather

How you experience the weather here in Scotland depends on your point of view.

This time of year, the sun (the wha'??!!!) rises at 8am and it looks like this:


It sets at 4pm, and looks like this:



So yes, all ye who warned of the darkness and bad BAD Scottish weather, it is dark, often. And wet, and cold. Seriously cold. I rush from the heat of our house straight into the car, which needs a few minutes' worth of idling in order to warm up. This time is used to scrape the frost from the windscreen. At work I rush into the warm classroom, where I'll stay most of the day.
If it is a sunny day (ha-ha!), the air is crisp and stark with cold. If it's raining, there isn't much to see and the day is wrapped in a gloomy blanket.
Therefore, if my preference had been for hot, endless days filled to the brim with sunshine and salad, then no, this weather would suck.

Luckily I love stew and soup. And snuggling, lots of it, under a tartan blankie next to a cosy fire with a book.

New beginnings

We are now inhabitants of Kelty. What an interesting place.

Heh-heh, sniggered the guitarist. Locals look down on Kelty and you do the smart thing and buy a house there. One day you'll have the last laugh.

The pub has a nasty reputation, my hairdresser adds politely. But it's a big mix of people living there now.

Kelty? exclaims the secretary. My husband refuses to live there. What's wrong with an old mining village? I grew up in one meself!

So what if we live in the black sheep of villages? We like it, and we have a great new hoose. Kelty is situated right next to the highway and with rising prices in Edinburgh, it's become a popular commuter town.

It's right in the middle of beautiful rural Fife:


The last say goes to Marge, our neighbour.
Kelty used to be lovely little place, she snorts, except for all these ootsiders comin in, yoos ken.
Sorry, says my husband politely.
Not yoos, she adds disgustingly, ootsiders from Dunfermline!
Which is the big town 5 minutes away.

Aboot the boot: Rugby World Cup 2007

Confession time: we don't watch rugby, cricket, or golf.
We don't have a tv, and just cannae be bothered...except this year. We are bothered.

Go Springboks!

I am mostly kept informed by my colleagues, in retrospect, of developments in these sporting multiverses. It usually goes like this:
I arrive at school in the morning and bump into Colleague 1.
'Hê-hê, we trashed the Boks fair last night,' he says, poking me conspiratorially in the ribs.
'Eh,' I respond.
'What did you think of the game last night?' asks Colleague 2 excitedly in front of the pigeon holes.
'Er, what game?' I reply tentatively.
At which an onimous silence descends over the entire staffroom, the copier stops working and the sports coach chokes on his coffee.
John, my head of department, gallantly comes to the rescue.
'Cricket. Scotland beat South Africa in the Super Minus 13?'

They are too nice ever to say anything, but my lack of involvement in these games (especially as a South African who represents limitless bantering potential) is a huge disappointment.

But this Saturday, we will have something in common: we will unite and cheer wildly for the mighty Springboks!

Scotland How-to: Money

Money can be confusing.







This guide should help prospective spenders heading for Scotland to get an inkling of what Scots currency looks like, and what you can do with it on a rainy morning.

These are the coins and they are actually worth something. The heavier the coin, the more it is worth, so you'll immediately feel that £2 will get you a few yards further than 50p.*
*£ = pound; p = pennies, or p's (pronounced 'pees', as in 'pee-pee')

All of the above coins will enable you to purchase

a large cappuccino from Costa Coffees.

I think you could squeeze in a croissant.
(Clearly, I need to do some research here.)




The next note of worth is the fiver.

With five pounds you can breathe a little more freely, and buy

two of you favourite magazines!
(Yours, not mine - I'm trying to appeal to a wider audience here.)








And then there is the twenty pound note (see image above), purple and proud. You can splurge out on several toasted sandwiches, an Americano and a copy of The Times to prolong the experience. And enjoy stories like Hologram Tam's banknote scam

Icons

A blog's look is vv important. The more blogs I read, the more selfconscious I become and explode into a flurry of changes. Faithful followers of my blog will attest to this (sorry).

After having discovered how to post pictures in the sidebar, a depression of the highest order descended. I needed an icon to summarise, in one elegant swoop, what I the blog is all about. I chose a rondavel.

WHY?!

It's a play of words, you see. My maiden name is 'Davel' and rond means 'round' (which is by no means a reference to my morphology), and should allude in a quasi-existential, neo-metaphysical way to the completeness of things, the circle of life and cake tins.

But a rondavel is something quintessentially African, and that is me.

What is the national icon for Scotland? It's not a rugby ball, neither is it a bloodthirsty highlander in the form of Mel Gibson, but it is the thistle. Humble, thorny, enduring and edible.

...just like most Scots.

Off sick

So, how does it work when you're sick in Scotland?
Amazingly, if you're working in the public sector you don't need a doctor's letter for the first three days, and you are allowed to write your own sickie note for the next 4 days. Therefore you can be off work for 7 days before your boss requires an official letter from the doctor. 7 days!!

I say amazing, because the system seems to place a lot of trust in people. In South Africa you have two days of grace, and then you must produce a medical certificate. This has had the knock-on effect of creating a huge market for false certificates: just add the illness.

Recently, while getting my papers from the doctor, I asked how difficult it would be to bribe him for a certificate. He shared some funny requests he's had from patients coming to see him after more than 7 days off the job with trivial complaints like headache and runny nose, demanding a sick note. He assures me that although he takes all complaints very seriously (and he does, bless him!), he is not allowed to write a med cert in restrospect. Another case was a woman who worked two jobs at the same time, and one unfortunate day her shifts were going to clash. So she promptly asked the doctor to write a quick note to kindly help her out of the fix. He declined, of course, but still considers that one of his more memorable stories.

Compare this with my mother-in-law who, in South Africa, manages a large number of personnel. She received a call the other day, that went something like this:
Wife of employee: 'Good morning, I'm afraid my husband is unable to come to work today.'
Mum-in-law: 'Thank you for calling, is everything okay?'
Wife: 'No, he is not fine - he has a demon and cannot work.'
Mum-in-law: 'A what??!!' (Sure she must have heard wrong)
Wife: 'A demon. Very bad, very bad.'
Mum-in-law: 'I'm very sorry to hear about the demon, but your husband still need to get a sick certificate from the doctor...'

I have to remember to share this with my doctor when we next meet!

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.