Boys who play with dolls

Lizardmen.

If you're still reading, you probably already know where this is going.

My son plays with dolls. Not just any old dolls; the variety that have to be assembled SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY, and whose body parts' refusal to adhere correctly at the psychological moment will bring forth language that I may later have to ask my daughter to translate. After this they have to be painted, in paints whose shades go by names like Skull White, Vomit Brown (not to be confused with Bubonic Brown) , Rotting Flesh, Tentacle Pink and Graveyard Earth.

Hand to God.

In case Hand isn't enough

They play at tournaments, involving dices that have too many sides for Cluedo, templates that look considerably more complicated than the little perspex triangles and semicircles that are vital to their education, codexes that contain more clauses than some treaties I have studied, and rules that would cause the Inland Revenue to cry for death or mercy. There is an entire mythology behind this; I dimly remember him saying that the High Elves were the second eldest race (I think I fastened on them because they didn't do things like spawning - did I mention that reproduction for most species in this game is something you don't want to dwell on over coughing up phlegm?) and then he described the Lizardmen (his favourites) as being "rather literal".

"As in, they like to read?" I said, hopefully.

"Ah, no. It's just, they can be literal, but different, in how they interpret orders.".

He thought for a while.

"Like, see, a Skink priest (I'm too afraid to ask) might ask for water.  And one troop of Lizardmen might think he means he'd like a glass of water, so they'll bowl off and attack a palace and bring him back a goblet of water from the palace spring.."

"Along with the heads of the inhabitants?"

He's too busy explaining.

"...whereas another troop might think he means he needs the borders of the ocean to be where he is, so they'll reshape the landscape so he's got a beach in front of him."

I so love the understatedness of 'reshape the landscape".

This is a photo of a Stegodon, with a Skink priest wielding a spear under the arch on his back. Some of the model is not yet painted; we'll get back to you just as soon as we can get enough Rotting  Flesh to do the job properly.

Why Lizardmen?

"Dinosaurs are awesome. Dinosaurs with spears and shields are uber-awesome. Dinosaurs riding dinosaurs with spears and shields AND capable of inflicting skull-splitting madness are ..beyond awesome. "

I cannot actually top that.

Rearranging Geography at Sparrowfart

So, it's that time of year again. BattleCry - which is The annual wargamers tournament commences at 7 (!) in Kohimarama; I was out of bed at 4.45, showering and making bacon butties for a 5.45 wake-up call for the kids. On the road by 6; I think both boys were out by 6.15 or as long as it took to inhale a bacon buttie. We were there by 7 before 7; and the geeks were arriving in force. So we cleared out, and, honouring another tradition, drove back to the Westfield Mall for a coffee. Alone. At the Coffee Club. Overlooking the empty parking lot.

Note the balloon in the sky above the hills.

We were too early for the Coffee Club.

So we went for a stroll, pausing to note the following well-constructed advertisment.

I don't know what to be more worried about; the disappearance of Sicily, England rejoining mainland Africa, or the fact that New Zealand amounts to four coffee beans. 

Spam, spam, spam, spam...

So, in my inbox this morning along with several offers of a certain manhood-enhancing product and the delightful news that I have won USD 9 million for having the right Vodafone number, was my unasked-for horoscope. I swear, they must use random word generators.

Hi Wilna,

Hey – give her credit – she doesn’t even know me and she spelt my name right! This is more than can be said for an awful lot of people I deal with on a daily basis!

Sadly, from here it’s all downhill.

I am Gloria, I am a medium from the site www.astrovidencia.com in Spain. This site is very famous on the other side of the Pyrenees.

Going by my map of the world, Spain is south of the Pyrenees, as am I, albeit considerably  further south.  Think penguins. Okay, just short of the penguins.

I have been initiated to the meduimnity

..okay, that's a first. Maybe she meant mediocrity?

first by my grand-mother, and then, I have learned the taralogy

...the what? Is that meant to be the  ability to read Tarot cards?  I didn’t know it was an ology.

and astrology with well-known teachers. Today, it became my only activity

...meaning she gave up on meduimnity and taralogy, but not spamming? I can understand why she gave up on the geography, anyway.

and at the beginning of the year, I wanted to let you enjoy for free my predictions for the following month.

Last time I checked, Spain was still celebrating New Year at the same time as us, which was kinda six weeks ago. Predictions after the event are called reflections.

Here is what you can expect:

On the affective level, on the second fifteen of January,

The rugby second fifteen I understand. The second fifteen of January is not connecting with any known concept in my mind.

you will be strongly influenced by your circle, so much that you will start doubting about yourself. A need of independence brings you a  feeling of beeing unuseful.

I've never met an unuseful bee.

It’s in beeing more flexible

..a flexible bee, maybe...

that you will improve your affective life. Some decisions will have to be taken and these decisions will have consequences on your future.

About work, your situation is evoluating

..is doing what? Darwin is puzzled somewhere.

positively, but very slowly. I can see in your profil a curb,

Yep, that's where I catch the bus every day

someone is trying to slow you down. This situation has last for a while now and begins to irritate you seriously.

Okay, she’s  a  year too late for that

Financially you are stable for now,

I get why you gave up on the meduimnity now.

but you are waiting for an amount of money that is taken more time to arrive than it was planed

Yes, I was planing on being born into it.

Unfortunately, I think that you can’t count on that before the second part of the year. It is not possible for me to tell you exactly when siince I don’t have all the elements on you yet. Call me to give me the elements I’m missing concerning your situation and I’ll be able to give you a exact date.

I want to show you the way of success, rather it is on the affective, professional or financial plan. I can bring you all the clarifications you need. Don’t wait, call me.

Talk to you soon, Gloria.

It's a good thing you gave up on the  meduimnity. I suspect we will not be talking, soon or any other time.

Dawn Treader time

Today was Beloved Daughters' 13th birthday. So that was scary enough. End of the school holidays (an unfortunate consideration, one we did not take into account in England) and as always we had chocolate cake for breakfast and a movie for dinner, with haircuts between times. This time I bribed Beloved Son into the haircut with a promise that I would allow him to read Cleolindas' TrueBlood recaps (you can find the most excellent Cleolinda here) so for those of you who have already read those recaps, please try to imagine a kid fresh from Southern vampire hilarity going in to see....The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  At least it gave his ribs a break. He laughs so much when he reads Cleos' Twilight material that I am reassured he has not inherited my asthma. I have seen him roll helpless on the floor, but never yet turn blue.
Anyway. So, the Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Visual death-by-chocolate as always, but I am hugely cheered by the irritating cousin Eustace, and set my internal clock to check for the first time someone calls him Useless. At this rate, I give it five minutes. I also wonder why the camera focuses on his noticeably blue eyes so often. I mean, do blue eyes even look that blue? We learn that Edmund and Lucie are living with their irritating cousin Eustace and his family while the rest of the Pevensie family are off finding a rich American husband for Susan; and assume there are adults involved in this although you never actually see them (well, you do see the uncle from the newspaper down, but I've seen horror movies that started like that) and after a short and fierce encounter between Edmund and Eustace that made me sympathise deeply with the makeup artist who had to deal with Skandar Hughes five-o-clock shadow, we find ourselves on the Dawn Treader.  A lot.
It's not in my nature to tell the movie; I leave it to those who have a gift for it, but here are a few overheard exclamations that kind of made the movie for me.
"Gah!  Bloody lion stalker!" (he did in fairness spill his popcorn when the voice popped up unexpectedly)
"Excellent. Pirates of the CariNarnia" (hint : cough*SEASERPENT*cough).
Nobody ever calls Eustace Useless. .
And the characters end with their now-usual roll-call of who-to-expect-next-Narnia-movie. I like it; we get used to our traditions, like waiting for the Unexpected Plot Twist Scene at the end of the Pirates movies, which you only get if you stay till the end of the credits (and I have to say I would have cracked up so bad at the end of Pirates 3 if Will had come ashore to find Elisabeth accompanied by a staggering gold-toothed dreadlocked 10 year old) so we know that's it for Edmund and Lucy.
But not Useless!!!

Cyclones and eavesreaders

Not that I wish to complain, people.
But I've only just lived down Hurricane Wilma, and now I've got to deal with Cyclone Wilma; and this time it is not simply trying to hunt down and kill my management structure off in Mexico somewhere, it's coming to where I live and looking for me.
This complicates my life on several levels., some of them obvious. One of them is this : I like to do my writing on the ferry - to work and from work. This is obviously a creatively ambient atmosphere and all, but more importantly, you get a lot of elbow room. When the ferry gets cancelled - this happens in high wind; and only happens to the Gulf Harbour ferry, because it is the only one whose route is not protected by Rangitoto (yes, in this part of the world we are protected BY volcanoes rather than FROM volcanoes) the ferry company puts on a bus. Which is fine, but there goes the elbow room, and, it seems, the personal bubble. There is a certain lady who seems to seek me out on the bus and sits next to me and reads whatever I'm writing.
Anyone else find that offputting? I tilt the book at an impossible angle and she actually cranes her neck to carry on. I find myself so off track after a few minutes of this that I start writing werewolf p0rn.
She seems to like reading that, too.

How Not to Meet Your Neighbour

We have a new neighbour. She has a huge deck, which overlooks our house, and two dogs complete the package. One is large and deep of woof, the other is smaller than our cat. I know this for a fact, as we emerged from our house last week on Saturday to find said cat arching his back in readiness for dog shredding, nose to nose with small dog, who obviously doesn't understand the Cat for I-will-floss-my-teeth-with-your-innards. I dived on the cat, Daughter dived on the dog, who beat it back whence he came - which, as it turns out, is through an extremely small hole in the fence behind the garage. The owner-lady emerged and we agreed we would put Something over the hole - she already has the gates blocked so that the dog can't get out, since he also doesn't understand the Car for You-Are-Roadkill.
We nailed netting over the gap, and she subsequently wandered up with a large plank which we used to reinforce the barrier; Small Dog has not returned, so I assume he is Minding The Gap.
He has developed an annoying yapping habit, which she is slowly bringing under control.
Last Friday, a friend, Martin, popped by with his drill, to help Son and me get a biltong box constructed. We worked on our deck, to the drill-WOOF-drill-WOOF symphony. Engaged in explaining to Martin exactly how the box needs to be ventilated, when the neighbour hushed the dog and called out something to me, I gaily called back, "Yes, but don't worry, the barking doesn't bother us that much!" Sons' open-mouthed expression alerted me to the fact that something was Not Quite Right about that statement, so I looked back at her to see her staring at me with a backing-off-now look on her face.
Apparently what she had shouted was "I have a huge rat in the kitchen - do you have problems with rats over there?"

7th January MeMe

It’s January 7^th 2011. I’m remembering January 7^th 1980. It was the last holiday I had with my Mum. Aunty Nancy came too. We went to Amanzimtoti, on the South Coast of South Africa, by train; my Mum was no longer up for the drive even if I did it. It was an eventful trip; you left at night – always – and arrived at Durban by 8, in time for a hurried change for ‘Toti. We’d brought sandwiches and all that to save money; and we picked up a stray.  You always picked up a stray with Aunty Nancy. She was carrying an awkward bundle and wearing a thick jacket in the heat; and she seemed almost hunched. We muscled our way into a compartment – OK, Aunt Nancy did that – and then she finally relaxed. Her name was Alexis; I told her that was so exotic, and she asked me what ‘exotic’ meant. She took off her coat once the ticket inspector had gone. She had a pet budgie under her arm, and she was carrying a sewing-machine, it belonged to her dead mother.

As always, Aunt Nancy knew exactly what to say.

“Did you want a ham sandwich or a chicken one?”  

I remember thinking it was all vaguely like a war movie;  there were lots of ‘troopies’ (South African National Servicemen) on the train; and Aunt Nancy definitely received and enhanced the flirtatious gene in the family. We had left the door open for air and soon the passing soldiers were yelling, “Hey, Nancy!” as they passed back and forth. Alexis,  having opened up enough to accept sandwiches and salad,  had closed back up again, and was staring at nothing much. One of the troopies dared my mothers’ glare enough to ask me, “Are you going to play that thing, or is it just for brags?” and Alexis looked up at my guitar and said, “I’ll sing if you do.”

Aunt Nancy never stopped talking about that night.

Alexis had a lovely singing voice, and we learned to harmonise really quickly. Eventually there were troopies gathered all down the corridor of our compartment and into the doors of any left open by families who realised that they were just boys away from their families, wanting to concentrate on something else than being away from home, for a while. Some sang, some clapped in time; we never had trouble making ourselves heard. It’s the biggest audience I’ve ever played to and I didn’t need a microphone.

By two, the conductor was making polite but suggestive noises, and the party wound down quietly. Well, aside from Aunt Nancy’s standing ovation. Mum and Aunt Nancy were out pretty quickly. I heard Alexis talking to her budgie and we both knew he couldn’t answer. We kept our voices down.

She lived in Durban. She had been through a difficult time since the family divorce; she loved her parents and found it difficult to divide her love as they seemed to expect her to do, especially given her Dad was in Durban and her Mum was in Johannesburg; so she found a boyfriend to act as one target for all the concentric circles of her love, and we all know how well that works out.

Then her Mum died, so suddenly. While her Dad was making practical arrangements that drove her mad with their slowness and apparent lack of grieving, she picked an epic fight with him, and ran out into the night where her willing boyfriend drove her straight north. Shock takes a while to catch up with you and grief closes off other senses, so by the time she figured out that there was actually a price tag attached to that drive there was only just enough time to seize the nearest mementos – the sewing machine and the budgie – before running to the stranger neighbours and throwing herself on their mercy.

They phoned her Dad; they made the travel arrangements, they got her to the station; all while we were packing and making sandwiches.

She cried less after the sewing-machine-heist section of the story.

So, okay, I slept with a girl in adult form. Also, a budgie.

When we were getting ready for – detraining? – the next morning, Alexis warned me that she would not hug goodbye, as she was going to have to hold tight to herself to face her Dad after what she had done to him. I said that was all good; I’d written our address down and given it to her so she could write if she wanted. She frowned hard, and said that she thought if she was going to get to be a grown-up she would need to cut a few things off. Like pruning flowers.

A note to my younger readers. 1980. A lot of people still used the term grown-up for adult. And a lot of people in Durban are brilliant gardeners, given the climate.

She stepped off the train into her Dad’s arms the next day; but none of us thought it would be any other way. I don’t think she could see any of us through her tears; and my Afrikaner upbringing dictates that you move away in those moments.

Also, we had a train to catch.