Back again, trying to make up for lost time! As I was watching my fingers tapping over my new keyboard I was given cause to muse about the precious gifts of our hands. (Obviously I never learnt to touch type, as in my day girls who were deemed not to be academic did a "commercial" matric learning shorthand and typing to place them in secretarial positions, whilst the rest of the gang got to wrestle with maths and science and a one sided view of our history, with the choice of going teaching or nursing. How I wish I'd learnt to type properly rather than having to struggle with subjects which were of absolutely no interest or use to me, and which barely stand me in good enough stead to calculate the calories in a Mars bar or test the pool water. Ah well, how much better it is for today's young women, who are able to choose from a broader spectrum of subjects, receive decent careers guidance and have a mind boggling, if somewhat daunting selection of careers options.)
But forgive me as I digress, so easily sidetracked is your feather brained Suzy Q. Back to hands, my chosen topic for today, those extensions of our bodies which set us apart from all other mammals and primates. They are capable of so many feats, from gross to fine motor movement, and they can convey our emotions even when we are poker faced. Our palms sweat when we are nervous or afraid, we wring our hands when anxious or grief struck, they tremble as they open an important letter or door in our lives and they express love in so many different ways. Anger too if one has a violent inclination. Hands are comforters, a simple touch can mean so much, and a pat on the head of a dog creates canine heaven. I'm also inclined to think that the skills as contained in our hands determine the type of work we do. Think artist, writer, sculptor, potter, doctor, nurse, physiotherapist, dentist, sportsman, actor, chef, waiter, artisan, the list goes on and on...
I think also of the romance of hands; how we feel secure holding the hand of a parent or older sibling as a child going into a shop or on our first day at school. The thrill of holding a pencil and seeing letters taking shape which enable us to write and communicate in our mother tongue. Hanging onto monkey bars and doing handstands, learning to swim and riding a bike are all dependent on the use of our hands. Then during the early romantic years, what bigger thrill than to hold hands with the object of your desires, all the better if it happened in the back row of the movies, and to be seen to be walking hand in hand was a public declaration that you were indeed "going out" with him.
Then, when love becomes more intense, it is the tender stroke of a hand across a face which says it all and more, or having one's face held in the two hands of one's beloved in a lover's cup prior to a life changing kiss. Who then hasn't gone to a fortune teller to have one's palm read to find out if he will or won't propose, or if he is indeed the one for you?
It is hands which are joined in prayer, and which are held during a wedding ceremony as the binding of souls on the long road to marital harmony and parenthood, and the rings which are exchanged in a promise of faithfulness go onto the ring finger with a direct connection to the heart. And if one is lucky enough, those hands will be cupping an enlarged belly whilst you wonder about the lucky packet contents contained therein, and will one happy day be cradling a beautiful baby. The fruits of love and labour.
The child becomes mother and marvels as ten little fingers unfurl and grow and grasp and explore. You wash little hands before meals, stick them in pots of paint to encourage creativity, teach them to turn pages carefully and learn to love and respect books. Your own hands, rougher and wrinkled, mop fevered baby brows, wipe dirty little botties and snotty little noses, and cook and wash and clean and drive for many years to come for those precious offspring. Till it's time to hold their hands as they start their first day at school, and they don't want to let go of your hand as they begin the long, slow journey away from you. All too soon, the day comes when the very last thing in the whole world they want is to be seen holding hands with you, and you try to hide your pain behind a bright smile. Knowing it is right in the great scheme of life. And then in turn, holding the hands of loved ones as they embark on their journey into the next life, and hoping and praying that there are hands outstretched to welcome them...
Our hands are our heritage, our lifeline, our form of self expression, our life's work and our show of love. Look after them and use them well and never take them for granted.
Love and thanks as always for taking time to read my blog, hope you all have a wonderful weekend.
Suzy Q
Ps. Who says elephants, my favourite animals (aside from Rex and Mr SQ) aren't evolved from a higher species? Just look at the mother "holding" her baby's hand and leading her to safety.
Well, as some of you might know, walking in the botanical gardens of Kirstenbosch rates most highly as one of our regular Cape pleasures. It is a privilege and a pleasure to be able to walk in such magnificent surrounds, getting a fairly good half hour hike in as we kick off at a lick up Camphor Avenue and do a circurtuous route first thing in the mornings.
www.sanbi.org/
One of the added benefits is that we feel pretty safe within the confines of the gardens. Today was particularly enjoyable, showing early signs of winter, being fresh, clear and breezy. We met up with Mr SQ's new walking pal, and ventured out of the gardens and on to the contour path for an extra thrill to the day and a super start to the weekend.
All this fresh air and exercise called for a little refreshment, so we ventured into Moyo, whose Bedouin style tents have been intriguing me me lately. Moyo has recently taken over the lease on the former Silvertree Restaurant, famous for it's magnificent views and sylvan setting, but most definitely not for it's food, as is often the case where there is a captive audience. Hope springs eternal, as it would be really super to be able to have a light bite or an evening meal in the gardens we love so much. I must admit to being a bit dubious on arrival, as it seems to have a circus-cum-carnival feel to it, a bit-how-wow, and is, ummm, not quite Kirstenbosch. So ok, they come from Zoo Lake in Jozi where they do things differently. Not wanting to be accused of being a boring old fuddy duddy opting for the old tearoom for a pot of tea and anchovy toast, I was sweet talked into popping in to find out what it was all about.
The serving staff are bedecked in clownish outfits, not quite sure what that's all about, but they seemed delighted to see us. Colourful cushions like something out of a Kasbah bedecked the seats, and we took a table outside, talking the place up. Perhaps we could all meet up for a meal and a glass of wine some time. Trevor, the manager, invited us to check out his produce table in the entrance, and urged us to "get involved." "Get involved with what, exactly?" enquired You-Know-Who (Yup, your ever boring Suzy Q) and was told to get involved with all the organic produce, including the preserves, apples and coffees. This rather reminded of the line from Richard Rayner's novel Los Angeles without a Map when a girl at the seaside said, " I love the sea but I don't want to get involved." Ditto me and my hard earned coffee. I just want to relax, chat and drink it with friends.
Our newfound friend and charming walking companion decided, whilst filling us in on his various cardiac and cholestrol treatments, to order the full English breakfast, with two SOFT eggs. Not wishing him to eat alone, we opted for a healthy yoghurt, fruit and muesli affair to share. The organic coffee was really very hot and flavoursome indeed. Full marks, but there it ended. The eggs arrived rock hard with two tough looking bits of cold toast and were sent back on the double. Our friend remarked wryly, "if the chef can't get the breakfast eggs right, there's not much hope for the rest of the menu." Worse than that, they could't get the raw muesli affair right either. A parfait glass with a sticky sweet dribble of red syrup down the sides arrived with a sickeningly rich yoghurt, nondescript muesli and a few gooseberries as its "healthy" contents. Pass. It rather reminded me of the Knickerbocker Glory parfaits we used to adore in days of yore.
The second round of eggs were only half hard, and we all had to get going so lingered only long enough to mention the saga to Trevor. Flabbergasted he was, and thanked us sincerely for the feedback, then he quickly moved on like a slick politician to tell us all about the face painting they do (seriously, if I want to go to a face painting party I'll take along a tribe of three year olds) and his Sunday buffets at R150 a pop. Don't like buffets, and the North African cuisine seems strange to me when Kirstenbosch is visited by so very many foreign and local tourists, and could really showcase some of our very own exceptionally good cuisine. I reckon that if they spent less time on the circus fare and more time on the menu and the edible fare they might stand a chance as they have guaranteed custom from the passing parade. However, even if he had offered us a complimentary anything as compensation, I doubt we'll be returning, till the next crowd take over....
However, I do wish them luck, not wishing to see any enterprise fail, so if perchance you are a senior citizen, they have a Pensioner's special on Tuesdays of coffee and a muffin for R20 to coincide with the free pensioner's entrance to the gardens. Now there you surely cannot go wrong, so why not take an old friend out for a walk and a treat and give Moyo a try?
www.moyo.co.za
Lotsa love and good to be back. Thanks for your support and patience. Hopefully with my new bluetooth keyboard (the old mac lives to fight another day) and a better Internet service from Telkom, it'll be back to regular postings again.
See you back here soon,
Suzy Q
Hello everyone,
Sorry to say that I am still beset by technical problems. No Internet at home, and now the letter "i" on my keyboard has given up the ghost. Could this just be a loss of ego!? It gives pause for thought at how just one little letter missing from the alphabet makes writing a civilized sentence impossible. Ditto the slide in society when basic mores and lores are ignored. Please pray for my little aged, but beloved mac and hope that I can get it back. Am borrowing Mr SQ's pc and it's like talking to a foreigner, so please forgive any obvious errors, and lack of postings and pictures, as I don't know how to upload them from here. But just to let you know that I'm still here, battling on bravely to get your daily dose of Suzy Q out for you, and hope you'll bear with me and not forget me...
With love, but suffering heaps of frustration,
Your long suffering,
Suzy Q
It's all my fault, unfortunately. I should NEVER have said that the Internet was less important than cellphones in my last blog post. We have been struck down by an unknown force and have no connection and are all climbing the walls. My apologies for not doing a blog post, or replying to all your mail timeously, and I am going to have to try to do today's posting in a hurry from a wifi zone, so hope it will be ok and that you'll forgive any typos.
Very frustrating actually, as my head has been abuzz with the furore over Brett Murray's portrait entitled The Spear depicting President Zuma with his private parts exposed. Which must surely be the oxymoron of the year. The President's private parts, from what I gather, are anything but private. His reputation is not exactly spotless. His sexual prowess is seemingly a point (blunt one?) of great pride to the President. His penis certainly works anyway, probably harder (oops, sorry didn't mean that) than many, many members of his cabinet. One would have imagined that the President might have been proud to have his hardest working member on show for appraisal and applause. Which merely goes to prove the old dictum, that the harder you work, the more likely you are to see results. As we all know, there are many Zumas, both little and large, sired by our esteemed President, scattered about this fair land of ours. If Suzy Q were to don her doek and gaze into her crystal ball, she would no doubt see a honeymoon baby before too long to further bless our beleaguered nation. Imagine if the presidency were to become hereditary...!?
I rather wonder why he is so angry about this picture. He apparently feels "violated" and resents being depicted as a philanderer. Weell...what can I say, does his reputation not speak for itself!? Methinks the President protesteth too much. As Tselane Tambo, daughter of Oliver, a real ANC stalwart, tweeted over the weekend, "...the truth hurts...Do the poor enjoy poverty? Do the unemployed enjoy hopelessness? He must get over it. No one is having a good time. He should inspire the reverence he craves..." This is one tweet which can't be brick batted as racist, and it comes from a 40 carat ANC source.
It's true, it should be JZ's head which should actually be hanging in shame because of the unacceptable levels of crime, poverty, unemployment and corruption in South Africa under his leadership. The ANC is taking the Goodman Gallery in Johannesburg to a full bench hearing of the High Court over their refusal to remove Murray's picture. Cold blooded murderers don't even get to court, so why should he receive preferential treatment over a piece of protest art? I guess it must be too close to the bone. (Irresistible that one.) Is he going to try to tick Brett Murray off as he did to Gareth Cliff over his amazingly gutsy, incredibly well worded open letter in 2010? Was it his henchmen who defaced public property by attempting to destroy the portrait earlier today? Does he not realize that the more fuss he makes about this the bigger fool he is making of himself, and hence our country? Does he even care? What of free speech and freedom of expression?
Business is reputedly brisker that ever at the Goodman Gallery and Brett Murray can be assured of escalations in the value of all his works, but let's hope he doesn't get rubbed out by an irate mate of Zuma's. This fiasco is taking of epic proportions, and I'm not referring to the great man himself.
The burning question remains: is the picture of the President's penis going to bring down our Constitution...?
In haste, with love and hope for us all,
Suzy Q
Now there's a soon be extinct object; I almost had to explain what they were to the Misses SQ when we happened to see one. I regaled them with tales of standing outside the local municipal swimming pool when I was a little girl making Scotch calls to home (hoping that somebody heard my three rings) to let them know I was ready to come home. No idea how long I had to wait to be collected. Or the time Mr SQ and I were new arrivals in Cape Town looking for jobs and dossing down in a bedsit. We had to answer adverts by walking to the local corner store to make calls from the "tickey box" which was also next to the gaming table. We'd have to bribe the kids there to keep quiet for a few moments as we made our nervous enquiries, hoping that the money and time wouldn't run out before we'd had our say, wanting prospective employers to think us cool and desirable rather than down to our last dime and desperate. My children just couldn't grasp the concept of a phone with a dial. Anyone remember the advance to the Protea phone with it's distinctive ring?
There was a time when getting a home phone was a major achievement, and my mom was a past master at flirting with the P&T guys to get our names moved up the queue. No doubt experience perfected her performance, as we relocated a lot. We would wait by the phone, hoping for a boy to ring, and pray that he would have manners good enough to get past my mom, who might have been lax about a few things, but was a stickler for good telephone manners. When Blues Restaurant in Camps Bay celebrated their tenth anniversary some time ago, their advert ran, "Remember ten years ago, when phones were still attached to walls?" Those were the only type of phones we knew. When Miss SQ No 1 was born, I was sadly unable to take the calls from wellwishers, as I was glued to the bed breastfeeding her, or glued to the washing machine doing her nappies. YES, sluicing, soaking and washing nappies. By the time Miss SQ No 2 came along (don't blink, it was barely a year later, with another set of nappies to sluice, soak, wash and hang out to dry) Mr SQ ensured that I had a cordless phone so that I could feed her, fend her elder sister off and talk to wellwishers all at the same time. Of course there were never as many callers for a second child, but it was still wonderful to have a chance to chat amidst all the babyhood this and that.
THEN came the moment when the cellphone made it's arrival. My brick, weighing in at about 5 kg allowed me to keep in touch with Mr SQ on his many travels when I was alone at home with the two little ones, usually a little run down and exhausted. Fortunately, we all survived, though I'm not quite sure how? I used to read Telephone Ted to them during the lonely days/nights/days/nights who knows, they blurred so much during those exhausting times. And my lonely mind was called on to draw on the telephone calls of note which marked my life. The Best and the Worst. Those were the ones nobody wanted to receive or make, but we won't go there. The amazingly happy ones are the best ones to think about. Like when you got called for a second interview. And then you got called to say you had the job, the car, the fat salary. Or a boy you knew called to say he fancied you. Even better, the dishy doctor on your shift managed to wheedle your unlisted number out of P&T (not that you didn't want to be contacted, no nay never, you'd just acquired your first flat and phone and were simply dying for it to ring) to ask you to the annual anaesthetic ball. Of course I went, but I promise I didn't fall asleep!
And going one further, when a summer romancer tracked me down past the stiff British reserve of the BT operators, testing all the numbers I'd given him in my country bumpkin innocence, but omitting the area code, and made my day and my life complete by calling me one day. He is, and remains the current Mr SQ No 1 btw. See, perseverance pays off chaps. Yet of all these important phone calls, the one that changed my life immeasurably was the one from my doctor's secretary, just before she shut shop on a Friday evening ahead of a long weekend, asking when I answered, if that was the "very pregnant Suzy Q?" I was about to become a mother!
These were dramatic times. The phone would ring, and news would be delivered. Mr SQ had a bag of 20c coins and a list of people to phone when Miss SQ No 1 was born to first inform friends and family from the call box at the end of the ward about our happy news. This proved to be more than problematic, as many of them lived abroad. Today folks just mms the birth video from their cellphones. I also believe people break up relationships, if not engagements and marriages by sending an sms, and then changing their status on facebook. Yet no face to face consultation. People are talk talk talking all the time, but what are they actually saying? Can't it wait? ("I'm boarding now. I'm getting off the plane and onto the bus.") People at restaurants text other people but don't engage in conversation with the people right next to them. Like someone once said at the height of Friends fame, "People are so busy watching Friends that they don't have time to make their own friends." So in a high tech world of previously unimagined communication systems, are we really communicating at all?
Hey everyone, let's talk more! Call me. Let me know if perchance you are enjoying reading my blog. And if that fails, just skype, sms, email, tweet or update me, just let me know, please...!?
Hope you all have a wonderful weekend.
Love,
Suzy Q x
As part of our birthday celebrations for Mr SQ last week, we shut shop and played hooky for the day, all aboard the Hop On - Hop Off CitySightseeing topless red buses. The service is so well run, the buses are punctual, the guides and drivers very friendly and helpful, and I can't remember when last we had so much fun. We booked and printed out our tickets online, at R110 each incredibly good value for a day's outing, and set off for a hike in Kirstenbosch, to be ready for the first bus to stop there at 09h50. In winter they will arrive every 35 minutes, in summer every 25.
Great excitement as we heard our first bus chug into sight up the hill, and we did our boarding pass thing and headed for the upper deck, there best to see the sights of our beautiful Mother City from new heights. The commentary over the headphones is most interesting, even to resident Capetonians, and we learnt a thing or two about our home town we'd never known before we disembarked at Constantia Nek for the Wine Tour Bus. (Great idea this, all before 11am!) We so enjoyed the views and the colours of the vineyards all aglow in shades of orange, and met many cheerful tourists en route, but, sadly no locals. This is definitely a trip we should all do, just for fun, for knowledge, to support a fantastic local initiative or disappear for a day. In fact, like the Circle Line in London, you could actually just keep going all day...
Having visited Groot Constantia many times before, we opted to stay on board for the next stop at Eagles' Nest, to try uncharted waters, so to speak. This was a most enjoyable visit to a scenic and stylish boutique winery, halfway up Constantia Nek. Chantal gave us a friendly and generous tasting for our R30 a head, and the wines proved to be worthy of Kobus Jordaan, the viticulturist, who set up the vineyards at Klein Constantia in the 80's, although sadly no MCC to toast our birthday boy. The Viognier is an interesting single varietal bottling of an unusual cultivar, and the Shiraz is a little local triumph. They offer picnics on their spacious lawns at R300 per couple, including a bottle of their sumptious Sauvignon Blanc, for which we returned for a fun day out on Mother's Day. The tasting terrace is (HOORAY) non smoking, but people did of course, smoke on the lawns, as they deem themselves to be "in the fresh air". The hamper was, ummm, not very inspiring, with some random selections of biltongy meat, (which Rex enjoyed on our return) a packet of handfried crisps, a whole hard camembert, some sludgy pate, strange tasting pesto, two tiny baguettes and two pain chocolats. The wine, service and the setting were all so wonderful, so I wish we could have just taken our own picnic and bought a bottle of their wine. However, I was simply so thrilled to be taken out and treated on this day dedicated to mothers, that ne'er a whinge shall pass my lips, however, should the proprietors read this, I hope that a kindly meant word will be taken. My daughters could have done better at Woollys, for a lot less, so perhaps they should reconsider their picnic supplier, as it is outsourced.
But I digress, back at our bus stop, our faithful red rooster arrived on time and took us to reconnect with the Blue Route Bus, and continue through Hout Bay and up over Suikerbossie and on to the Waterfront. No, I did not want to hop off at the World of Birds, been there and done that when the Misses SQ's were infants and we were all left gagging having been there when the pelicans were fed chicken heads and worse bits, nor did the township tour appeal. Enough township dwellers visiting the burbs by night from what I hear to warrant a return visit from us. Uh oh, sad state of the nation that gangs seem to be operating all round us again. Bad enough for us living in fear of crime behind our security services, worse for the decent citizens of the same townships who live cheek by jowl with the criminals.
Anyway, back on the bus, we drank in the elevated views going past Llandundo, singing the praises of our city to all our newfound friends (no mention of crime and the recent horrendous attack on Fr Andrew Cox in the Constantia Catholic Church and the fear we have for our future to them of course) as tourism keeps people in jobs and off the crime beat. We arrived back at the VnA, and one small flaw here, the bus stops at the Aquarium, so it is actually a bit of a trek back to the main areas to eat if you are planning on moving on shortly. Surprize surprize, we found ourselves having a hearty, and very reasonable fish and chip lunch at a super table with one of the best settings at the Waterfront, all for R70 including a glass of house wine. Try that at one of the overrated and overpriced places next to the amphitheatre. I had so hoped to do the mini boat tour through the canals, but time would not permit, so hopefully next time. We did however, get lured into an Irish pub, O'Driscoll's (dirty) Pub in Burg Street on the way home for a celebratory glass of Guinness, which, surroundings and patrons aside, served a fairly decent pint, but not a place I'd rush back to. However, the German bookshop over the road was a treat hard to beat, with a charming bookseller of the old school and a most interesting selection of Africana and local books on sale.
From there, we headed back to our car at Kirstenbosch, and an evening cooking and celebrating with the Misses SQ's. It was a great day, and something I wouldn't just save for a high day or holiday. Do it for yourself, do it for our city, do it with family and friends, do it to celebrate our Mother City.
With love from,
Suzy Q
www.citysightseeing.co.za
www.eaglesnestwines.com
Hello again my dear friends, family and readers,
I'm back, and have so much to tell you about that I barely know where to start, hence my delay. We Librans are notorious for indeciciveness, so lest I deliberate any longer, let me tell you today about the fabulous Franschhoek Literary Festival. Being lovers of words, literature, books and reading, I can't believe that we only went to our first flf last year, as it is such a truly fantastic event. Oh, hang on a moment, was that shortly after Miss SQ No 1 got her driver's license and we could, maybe, just start getting away for the odd weekend again, even with fingernails chewed to the quick with worry? (Or salved by the delectable local wines?) Well after the success and enjoyment of last year's festival, we couldn't wait to return and take in some of the 2012 line up.
This is the brainchild of local author, Jenny Hobbs, and is now in it's sixth successful year, but seems to be threatening to burst at the seams. I hope it doesn't get tooo big, as the beauty of the event is in the venue, Franschhoek being a quaint village, surrounded by mountains, vineyards and bathed at this time of year in spectacular autumn hues. The talks take place over three days in a selection of venues, all within walking distance of each other. Fortunately for us all, the weather has been mild and clear, so no hotfooting it from venue to venue in the rain for us yet, but even that wouldn't be too much of a hardship or detraction for being there. It has an interesting cast of authors and well known characters, many of whom can be seen mingling with the crowds, signing books, drinking coffee, or sipping bubbly at one of the many pavement cafes when not participating in panel discussions. There is an air of great excitement, a touch of madness, and a slight frisson of "you never know who you might meet." Nothing can yet beat meeting Justin Cartwright last year, whose great hands have penned so many brilliant books. Sadly he wasn't back this year. Oh dear, did I throw myself at him too in a mad moment of heady excitement at meeting a long time literary hero? Nothing holding back ol' Suzy Q when she gets going, sorry to say! He didn't exactly quail at being presented with at least a dozen treasured books to sign, and in fact was quite taken aback seeing some of his earlier works in proof form. I guess he'll return when he has a new book to promote.
This year we chose to kick off with an intimate talk in The Screening Room, which does double time as an armchair movie theatre, called Poetry of this Late Age, featuring poets Gus Ferguson, whom we admire and treasure, and Margaret Clough, who was an alluvial diamond newly discovered. There was such gentleness, humility and beauty to their poetry it left me utterly charmed. And hopeful. Gus discovered his talent for words in his early 30's, and Margaret, much, much later, so let's never say die kids, there's hope for all of us who try, I hope... Look out for copies of Dubious Delights and At Least the Duck Survived, if there are any poetry lovers out there. In the evening we attended Pieter-Dirk Uys in Cabaret playing "Bambi Kellermann" in the packed Church Hall, which was a marvellous performance by this national treasure.
Home for the weekend was again at La Bourgogne Farm riverside Cottages, just beyond the Huguenot Monument, which provides the most comfortable, well kept self catering cottages in beautiful surrounds. The cottages are managed by Loesje and her able assistant Lara, and despite it being a very busy weekend for them, they went to great lengths to see to our every need (including the removal of the pool cover for lil' old polar bear here.) The farm produces a few wines, including a very interesting 2009 Semillon called Progeny, fruit which Loesje preserves and sells, olives and truly exceptional olive oil. www.labourgogne.co.za
Our neighbour for the night was the author, James Whyle and his wife, so we dutifully attended the talk on his novel, The Book of War, also in the Screening Room. This was conducted by Mark Behr (another unexpected thrill as I have long been a fan of his) and was very interesting, outlining the war in the Eastern Cape, from where James hails, in the mid nineteenth century. The behaviour of people is a constant source of amazement to me. Two seats away from me (just too far to poke in the ribs) sat a young woman who no doubt fancied herself as a budding journalist, or was perhaps just tweeting her friends to let them know where she was, as she tapped, nay stabbed her ipad throughout the entire discussion, when not rifling in her voluminous handbag for more sweeties, which trust me, she definitely did not need, to unwrap noisily. She beat the girl by a whisker who asked after a long and thorough synopsis of the book by James, "basically what's it about?" He held well. We have our signed copy, which Mark said contained some "stellar writing" - high praise indeed from the author of The Smell of Apples - but I fear it might be a tad too violent for my tastes, so will have to ask Mr SQ to review it for you.
We also attended an excellent panel discussion hosted by the witty and eloquent Marianne Thamm entitled On being Bolshy with Gareth Cliff, Denis Beckett and Martin Welz. Now that takes guts! Needless to say, the state of the nation was hotly debated. There were so many other interesting talks we would have loved to attend, rather spoilt for choice, but that is all we could manage. Neither can one go hungry or thirsty in Franschhoek, with so many restaurants and quaint little establishments from which to choose. We came home full to the brim of all the good things we had left Cape Town to ingest, and have, needless to say, already booked for next year. www.flf.co.za
Wonderful to be back with you,
Love,
Suzy Q
