Chemical Warfare.

I'm a nature loving gal, so I hate chemicals, or so I say. I was hellbent on having natural childbirth, whatever that may be, until forces greater and stronger than that of my body and that of my unborn baby proved to be, and chemical and surgical intervention were required. And now, while I'm not physically chemically dependent on anything, thank heavens, I am definitely reliant on chemicals, and I suspect you may be too.

Take the contents of my cleaning cupboard. There are products aplenty, for each and every kind of stain or surface. Different  detergents for clothes, some for those in the washing machine, others for the hand wash stuff, ditto for the dishes. Tile cleaners for floors, and another for shower surfaces, bleach for dishcloths and thicker bleach for the loo. Intensive stain remover for those hard to remove spots, and creamy Handy Andy for kitchen counters. Mr Suzy Q reckons we are all being held to ransom by Reckitt and Colman, or whoever, and one bucket of soap and water would do all jobs just nicely if it had to. Heavens, didn't we used to wash our camping crockery and cutlery with sand and water back in our hiking heyday?

Then we have chemicals for all those household pests. I have sprays for cockroaches, ants, fish moths and flies, of which we seem to have had a plague this summer, and pellets for things that scurry around in the roof at night. I hate to tell you that I was once held to ransom by a rat which took up residence in our kitchen for an inordinately long time. I emptied all the cupboards, laid down poison and traps, but the wily Willard continued his nocturnal romps, of which there was evidence aplenty every morning. In desperation I called the Council, and they sent in their very best Pied Piper who laid super strength muthi, also to no avail. Eventually it was my own handsome hero who flushed the beastly creature out from behind the dishwasher, and Rex, who fancies himself as a bit of a ratter, took one look at King Rat and fled, leaving Mr Suzy Q to do the dirty, and it was gory. Now there's an image for you, poor old me, the original 50's wife screaming atop her chair as the rat finally met it's fate at the hand's of my husband's hatchet. But I digress. In my gardening shed is a collection of fairly lethal sprays and pellets for aphids, slugs and cutworm. When donning my pool boy's hat (many a hat I have to wear, girls, it's not all lady's lunches as you might suspect) I do a regular assault on our swimming pool with cups full of chlorine, hydrochoric acid, sacks of salt (so good for my biceps) and rather toxic looking algaecide. In this case the cure actually looks worse than the disease.

In our personal capacities, ignoring the chemicals we use to enhance our tresses and faces, we also take tablets to break down the fat we ingest to unclog our arteries and to reduce the blood pressure caused by the daily stresses of life. Children are pretty much raised on a diet of antibiotics to beat the bugs which used to cause little more than common coughs and colds in my childhood, but which now all seem to lead to pneumonia. There are supplements which claim to make children better behaved, more intelligent and thus better performers at school. And let's not start on sportsmen. Teenagers and young women take the contraceptive pill to prevent inconvenient  and unwanted pregnancies, whilst middle aged women take  hormones to stave off depression because they are no longer able to  reproduce. Crazy changing world that it is, it looks to me like chemical warfare is here to stay... 

Matric Dance Dress.

Exciting times for the youngest Miss Suzy Q, as the pinnacle of her school career looms larger than life. Yessirree, her matric dance is a mere two months away, and we have not seen anything in the stores which looks even halfway decent for her to wear on her big night.  I must say that a lot of shops are seriously missing out on a large and lucrative market by stocking short dresses only, but be that as it may, we need to find something fast. Now I'm sure that my few loyal fans (for which, as always, a great big "Thank You") imagine Suzy Q looking glam on a daily basis, doing the dusting in a revealing negligee and not much else, but if truth be know, fashion has never been a major concession of mine. Reasons various: possibly because I didn't have the resources to indulge a fashion passion, or because I was a bit of a tomboy, and jeans and tackies and t-shirts were, and still are my staples. Suffice to say, I've never really got the girly thing, and would rather spend any spare cash on travel and hedonism than on a Louis Vuitton clutch or a pair of unwearable Jimmy Choos. I also  made my own matric dance dress out of Hawaii print fabric, having once been a bit of a surfing bunny, so this whole lavish extravaganza is a bit new to me.

Not so the little Suzy Q's. They luuurv killer heels, skimpy little dresses and designer labels, so with wallet in hand, I'm learning from these two fashionistas. Miss SQ No 1, somewhat surprisingly, found the perfect matric dance dress at Monsoon during the December holidays, at well under R1000, which I'm told is a modern miracle. Being so fortunate of face and figure (I wonder where she gets it from...?) she stole the show at her dance and was quite Cinderella at the ball, outshining many an extravagant designer gown. Whew, we clearly got off lightly there. However, there is still the current dress problem to solve.

When in doubt, ask the Pilates pals. As I no doubt mentioned before, we share tips and ideas and laughs but, mercifully, not intimate secrets, so it's all smooth sailing, well at least until the annual awards ceremony, when a few miniature knives have been know to come out. I got the number of a great designer, "he who dresses parliamentarians and their wives," so I'm hopeful that he might have a tiny bit of fabric over from all the bales they buy and get some of my tax back. We embarked upon a whole new adventure, going to see him this morning with a few pictures and ideas in mind. He must surely delight to work with such young and easy to dress material, for he sketched my daughter with a few design ideas until she liked what she saw. It was fascinating watching his ideas emerge from the end of his pencil, and reminded me of the magic paint books we used to play with, when the picture appeared with a water application. Such fun! He then measured what little there is of her, draped her in fabric till we found the right colour and fall, and we're totally in thrall.

Can't wait to go back and check on progress (that's if I don't drop dead from the final quote...!?) 


A very excited,


Suzy Q

New Blue Shoes.

I must state my case outright. If I were single and had a facebook account, my status would read, "no men wearing crocs need apply." 
(Men with orange, khaki or perish the thought, personally decorated crocs might as well leap into the moat to be devoured by the real reptile.) They have become an international nightmare, with cutesy shoes in all manner of styles and sizes ranging from infant to giant, with clip on art to add insult to injury. My brother, a style guru and label snob of note, recently pointedly ignored a man he met shopping on a Saturday afternoon, when they had enjoyed good conversation at a dinner party the night before, the minute he noticed his croc clad feet. We both admit, purely out of loyalty, that Mr Suzy Q is the ONLY man we'd ever talk to in crocs, on the grounds that he wears them because of a bad back ("that's why surgeons wear 'em") and he also has many other redeeming features.

I quailed just before Christmas when I spied a discarded croc carrier bag in the bin, with no obvious evidence in sight. (Nothing escapes Suzy Q's beady eye when out doing the daily dirt, you see!) A bit of intensive, investigative snooping under the tree revealed a suspiciously box shaped package labelled for me, with an ominous "Welcome to the Club" clue. Now, les belle teens won't even go to the corner shop with Mr Suzy Q if he wears his infamous crocs, so they were unlikely to be members of this new club, and knowing my more malleable personality, I reckoned the beastly reptilian shoes were destined for me. Perhaps he really didn't want us to make it to our forthcoming 20th wedding anniversary...?


Come Christmas morning, with all eyes on me, I opened said package with no small amount of trepidation and anxiety, trying to read meaning into the bemused faces around me. And lo, a pair of little blue lace up tackies, just the style I adore, unfurled themselves before me, and they really looked quite cute. Thinking that I was the butt of some wicked joke I hadn't quite fathomed out yet, I tried them on, just to keep them all sweet and smiling (for the knives were yet to come out as we planned to prepare the turkey together, and the kitchen is never large enough for both of us). Hmmm, feather light, unbelievably comfortable, and yes, cute. Their trick had worked on me. Just as I was getting to love them, I noticed the wicked crocodile grin on the little logo on the side. Ah well, what the hell, never look a gift croc in the jaws, I love them and now wear them to death. Merci beaucoup Monsieur Suzy Q!

One small problem, what about my brother? Well, I guess he's short sighted anyway, but will he disown me when he notices my defection...?


Your croc clad,


Suzy Q

Scorched earth!

We are in the throes of a heat wave kids, just as photos of cold and snow beyond belief pop into my inbox from the Frozen North. Heathrow seems to have come to a standstill, and we are in serious danger of runaway fires here. Let's hope that we don't have any fires started by litterbugs (yup, Suzy Q's back on her hobby horse) throwing their stompies out of their windows as they drive by with their boom boxes blaring. It may interest to you to know that there is a dedicated line in Cape Town (because of the high fire risk in summer) so that civilians can report people who flick their stompies out their windows. Just note the time, place, make and registration of the car, call 021-4247715 and they will get a warning letter, or at worst, be traced if a fire breaks out in the vicinity of the incident. There have been too many incidences of runaway fires, resulting in massive use of resources, and risk to life limb and our precious indigenous flora and fauna. Do your citizen's duty and put the scummy stompie litterers on the hot spot!


See: http://www.timeslive.co.za/local/2012/01/11/stompie-hotline-nailing-the-smoking-nuisances

There is  general moaning and groaning and gnashing of teeth as we who are privileged enough to live in the burbs try to cope with the heat by doing our errands in air conditioned cars, and cool off in our swimming pools or have easy enough access to the beach. Yet again, my heart goes out to Agnes, our weekly domestic helper, who travels in hot, crowded taxis and trains and returns to her shack which must bake in today's 42' heat, with nowhere to run or hide. She always has the opportunity to shower when she works here as she still has no running water at home, and leaves, I hope, feeling a little refreshed after her day's work. For all this, and call me the coward I am for I have never asked, not wishing to pry or overstep the mark, I doubt that she has ever had the pleasure of a relaxing soak in a bath. 

The things we so easily take for granted may never happen in her lifetime. Remind me to tell you about Singapore sometime. I'll try not to bore you, as I have such admiration for that model state, founded with so little in the way of natural resources, but with so much vision and great leadership, where even the lowliest of workers have a solid roof over their head, running water, good state education and in everyone I met, there was a great sense of pride and hope for the future of their children, so lacking here. We can only but dream of a leader and visionary of the calibre of Lee Kuan Yew.

And need I say, no stompies or litter to be seen anywhere there either, which may be as a result of civic pride or fear of the law which strictly forbids such anti social behaviour. I don't care that it might be called a draconian society - it clearly works!

Paradise Lost.

It's been a very busy and emotional week, with a special birthday celebration in the house, and the start of our eldest daughter's university career with which to cope. Her growing up and taking her place in the adult world coincides with our letting her go, hence it was a fairly tearful pair who watched her stride off into her new environment, feigning a confidence I'm sure she wasn't feeling. 

All things told, we headed off to our now beloved St. James tidal pool for a Friday evening dip to wash away the wear and tear of the week. The water wasn't quite as clean and refreshing as it usually is in the early mornings which we have come to enjoy so much, but we had a quick dip and left feeling a little more refreshed. A large crowd was having a picnic supper on the stairs at the bathing huts, which we presumed to be a family gathering or celebration, and we remarked on what a good idea it was to watch the sun set and share good times together there.


Come Saturday morning, which dawned in a state of Cape perfection, we hotfooted it down to the pool to get a good few laps in before the hordes of day trippers arrived.  Having slept in just a little later than usual, we had missed our usual crack of dawn swimming friends, and noted a good few people already paddling, rather than swimming in the pool, as we looked down from Main Road. I did mention in my original blog entry (St James - my personal epiphany 21.1.12)  when we first discovered the delights of St James, how spotlessly clean the beach and pool were, and marvelled at the fact that municipal cleaners were at work well before our arrival at 6 am each morning. Last weekend, one of the cleaners whom we have come to know, approached us to ask if we knew of any odd jobs he could do, as his weekend cleaning contract was coming to an end. We have his number and are on the lookout for him, a hardworking husband of an unemployed aircraft construction worker and proud father of a two year old son. However, the alarm bells which should have started ringing in my head missed the signal. Who, in his place, would be cleaning the beach?


Nobody, as it transpires. We were assailed with the smell of fly infested excrement in the subway, and looked in horror at the state of the beach. Litter EVERYWHERE, but most noticeably, on the ground all around the plentiful, large green rubbish bins. This had all happened overnight, as we had left the pool at 8 pm the previous evening. It defies any sense of logic, civic pride or social mores or laws, that people could defile such a beautiful place. That they could not take their sweet wrappers, chip packets, cigarette stompies, beer caps, plastic bottles, watermelon skins and other unmentionable debris and place it in the bins provided leaves me shuddering with rage and disbelief. It also pains me that this is what faced Mark and his colleagues at 5 am every morning, yet they did the job willingly and smilingly to earn honest wages, and are now unemployed.


Our swim was short and less than sweet, and St James is badly tainted for us. I'm afraid there won't be a photo in the blog today, as my heart is heavy and it will take me quite some time to get the images of this morning's subway and beach out of my head. I do know that I won't be going back for a while, but that I will be talking to anybody who will answer their telephone at South Peninsula Municipality first thing on Monday morning!


Signed: A Sad Suzy Q


Ps. Further to my recent blog entry on Dog Owners (13.10.12) please read the latest on this sorry saga. Let's hope that tomorrow will herald a better day...


Rottweiler that attacked girl put down - Cape Argus | IOL.co.za

February the 2nd and The Big Bash.

The Big Bash to which I refer is not the upcoming party for all UCT students, but the recent 100th birthday party of the ANC, and the relevance of the second of February. As you no doubt know, Suzy Q is a party lover of note, and a glass of champagne will be proffered at the drop of a hat, should the occasion dictate. I did however, have cause for concern over the mega ANC bash held in Bloemfontein to celebrate the party's centenary. The past is important, it made us who we are today, but we also have to consider what we are doing today and what we are going to achieve before tomorrow. The ANC, as far as I can see, and  please don't mock my kitchen sink vision, is spending so much time commemorating it's noble past leaders, and so much of it's current funders money, that it's navel gazing (sushi jokes aside) allows for no future planning. They may just have read one of my earlier blogs, and taken the "make hay while the sun still shines" suggestions way too literally.

The Big Bash was held in a truly elitist fashion, with fat cats cruising in to play golf in state of the art vehicles (knocking the"we were only allowed to be caddies before" dictum for a six) whilst wearing designer gear and expensive watches, watched on by the impoverished masses they are overpaid to represent. Style gurus/public thieves to aspire to and look up to? Role models for the next generation? How could they honestly, with a clear conscience, squander so much money when unemployment, poverty and hence crime are at an all time high? Aislinn Laing in The Telegraph (see link below) asked whether it would not have been better to mark the occasion by building 100 new schools, roads or hospitals? Not to be so ambitious, Suzy Q asks, what about 100 clean, private latrines?

Are we forever going to be looking backwards, spending good money celebrating the achievement of past, braver, leaner leaders, or are we ever going to make progress? Feb 2nd marks the day that in 1978 absolved prison warders of murdering Steve Biko, and in 1990 announced the imminent freedom of Nelson Mandela and the unbanning of the ANC. Is this what our beloved Madiba spent 27 years in jail for, being urinated upon by prison warders on his journey to Robben Island and missing the funeral of his son? Is this what Steve Biko died for, being bludgeoned almost to death before being driven naked, manacled and uncovered from Port Elizabeth to Pretoria in the back of a truck? Is this what Dr Neil Aggett, tortured to death for his liberal white beliefs gave his life for?

No, I definitely think not! I really, really don't think so...


I truly cry for my beloved country!


See: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/africaandindianocean/southafrica/8999921/ANC-at-100-This-isnt-a-celebration-for-us.-What-have-we-got-to-celebrate.html

Parent Orientation.

A scorching hot Saturday saw me heading to UCT for my Parent Orientation Programme, to best facilitate my daughter's arrival and survival on campus.  (At last, I can use the word "campus" in it's true sense. A school is a school and a university is a campus. Finis.) What a wonderful idea, as the transition from school to university is fairly monumental, and we'd all like to help her over this time with as much love and understanding and support as we can possible muster. UCT is such a beautiful place to study, with it's unrivalled position on the slopes of Devil's Peak and magnificent old buildings. I felt like a student myself, puffing up Jammie's steps to listen to the inaugural speech by the Deputy vice-chancellor, Prof Crain Soudein, a warm and eloquent man, whom I imagine started his studies at UCT in 1973 under difficult racial circumstances. I was moved listening to all the subsequent introductory stuff, thinking of course how far we have moved on in south Africa. The speakers all hoped that we would back in those same seats in four to six years to see our babies being capped and gowned, and that prospect, of course, further reduced me to tears. Oh, the joys of motherhood!

We then split up to be addressed by the individual Deans of Faculties, and I listened with no small amount of fear and awe as an attractive, confident woman, younger than me, gave us the lowdown on the workload for Law students. I'm sure I asked the dumbest questions, and cried nervous tears in the hope that our baby is up to the challenge, and made friends with other trepidatious new parents, hoping our children would have someone to connect with on their first day, but I left with a happy heart. The Dean assured us that she was there to help, and outlined the student mentor system and all the other support systems in place to help first year students. I so hope that our little Miss Suzy Q No 1 will find her feet and flourish in this nurturing environment, and I give bountiful thanks for this opportunity.  


The times, they really are a'changing, and again, all for the better. I too went to university, having just turned 17 (my daughter is a day or two short of 19) and was all but dumped at the door of res and left to my own devices. There was no orientation for students, let alone parents, and this was yet another rite of passage to cope with and conquer alone. In fact, even though we were under age, we were plied with drink by the randy SRC and Rag Comm members, marched around the field in a cattle parade for drummy selection, and given no academic support whatsoever. Still, there was something so glamorous about seeing our beautiful Rag Queen, dressed in white dress and gloves, flanked by her two princesses aboard her float on Rag Day. Has feminism ruined the aspirations of beautiful young women who will never again have this moment, or is it better to level the playing fields and have no unfair advantage and be judged for academic achievements only? Come on, everybody loves a looker, so why discriminate on campus? Those who might want to enter a beauty pageant should have the right to do so, and those who don't can avoid the whole sexist scenario. Miss World still exists for a good and commercial reason.

My happy day on campus ended on a slightly sour note, sorry to say, as I'd prefer to focus on the positive. Having watched an Orientation video of students discussing the cultural diversity they experienced emerging from their childhood comfort zones, the parents were asked to turn to their neighbours and tell their stories about preparing their children for university. As I was on the end of a row of seats, I turned expectantly towards the Muslim man on my left, who was accompanied by his wife and daughter, hoping to break new ground, but he studiously avoided me and continued talking to his family on his left. A crying shame, when a handshake, or a smile or a minute or two of idle parental chit chat would have broken good ground. Ah well, I had met so many pleasant and excited parents of all races that morning, and we were all on the road to building a bright future for our children and our country. 


Let not one miserable, inward looking man ruin it for the rest...


Suzy Q