Rambles from World's End

Growing up as the only sister to three brothers has been both a blessing and a curse. One day I felt like “the rose among the thorns” but other times I was that lonely “little petunia in an onion patch.” The first twelve years of my life were torture; my “big brothers” were mean! I have a few memories of happy fun times shared with them both, but I have loads of memories of their meanness and their relentless teasing. Funny thing is I also recall that most of these horrid tricks they played on me were when my parents were out. My older brothers were not nice baby sitters! I looked forward to the day they would both finish high school and head off into the big wide world and I would get to have the house and my parents to myself! But then my baby brother came along and spoilt all my plans! Being the only sister to three brothers, especially with the age gaps as they are, was sometimes very lonely. My older brothers had each other for company all the time and I was often left alone with

I had a rather tear filled “Facebook” conversation with someone very special just recently and it got me thinking about when we first arrived at the end of the world and how we coped. I also realised that the Mauritian and I had never really talked about those “early” days and our coping mechanisms so over a good bottle of Nederberg and excellent lamb roast on what is the twelfth anniversary of our marriage I broached the subject. This is what we discovered... Most people we knew said that I would really battle being separated from my family, that being so far away from my parents would be extremely hard for me. These same people also predicted that the Mauritian would find the move a lot easier and certainly would not miss his dad much at all. To those of you out there that are nodding your heads in agreement I have only this to say... Wrong! Even though leaving my family was the hardest thing I have ever done I have coped very well with the home sickness and the challenge of star

So our twelfth anniversary has rolled around and we have planned a splendid day of celebration. As has become our custom we grab a few bottles of good red wine, the Mauritian cooks a roast and we spend the day at home with each other reminiscing and discussing. Our weekend started off with a bang on Saturday morning, literally! I was going to bake a batch of muffins with breakfast and asked the Mauritian to turn on the oven to warm it up. Suddenly there is this rather strange bang like popping noise coming from the kitchen. On investigation we find that the glass on the inside of the over door has shattered! Guess I won’t be making those muffins now! The Mauritian, of course, has become irritated and restless and is cursing everyone and their dog for breaking the oven and interfering with his plans to make his superb lamb roast on Sunday. I really do think sometimes that if he could he would growl! So after eventually realising that what happened was really nobody’s fault he called t

After the bone chilling cold of winter and the wet colourless spring, summer has dawned blue and bright. I am beginning to understand why the summers here at the end of the world are so full of activity. People, like bears, hibernate in the winters here, some days it’s too cold to move! But come the spring and people start to emerge and venture out into the fresh air only to run back inside out of the spring rains. Last year, our first here at the end of the world, was magical! My drab lifeless garden did just about “spring” into life over night and I spent my days wondering around the garden marvelling at all the colour. This year it has been more gradual and very, very wet, no magic there at all. But now the summer has finally woken up and we have had a cloudless week to bask in the sun. With the summer comes energy and desire to absorb the warmth of the sun. It’s also a time when every house on our street has washing lines packed with washing day after cloudless day. People are cle

A few blogs ago I was strutting like a proud peacock and boosting about how well behaved and disciple my little Butterfly is. I really must learn to keep my big mouth shut! She all but gave me the finger today and today has gone down as the worst day of my life. I think today she has made up for three years of good behaviour and earned her nick name “Terror-Marie.” I never want another day like today, ever! It started this morning with a tantrum because she wanted to watch television. On Sunday mornings while her favourite parent cooks breakfast the television stays off and the music is on. To his credit and for the first time ever the Mauritian did not give into her and she earned her first smack from him when she threw her moon chair out the back door. Breakfast consisted of a refusal to eat anything except her bacon and trying to steal my bacon off my plate. So I sent her to her room, to which she screamed “I’m not going to my room!” and slammed her fist on the table. Well, not th

There was a comment made on my recent post “It’s a Question of Faith” from one of my many “cousin’s-in-law.” Her comment disagreed with my opinion that we all worship the same God. This blog is not, I repeat, not a rebuttal of her comment! I will save that for when we are sitting across from each other at the dinner table with a bottle of wine or two between us. What her comment did do was remind me of a prose piece which I would like to share with you all here. Some of you know it, most of you I have told about it, all of you will benefit from reading it! It is called “There Are Too Many Saviours on my Cross” It was written and performed by Richard Harris on his album, "Slides". It was written about the conflict in Northern Ireland around the time of the Bogside Massacre known also as “Bloody Sunday” at a time when it seemed to matter how one worshipped. I believe, however, that these words are as appropriate today as they were almost forty years ago. “There are too m

Grap a beverage this is a long one, with absolutely no point to it at all. So I’m a stay at home mum of one with what should be a lot of time on my hands to pursue the things I enjoy doing, namely writing! Wrong! Making the time to sit quietly at my computer and write my blogs or my poetry is hard. When I do get the chance I often give up something else like quality time in the evenings with the Mauritian after the Butterfly is in bed or sleep when I wake up extra early to take advantage of the dark and quiet. I am, after many a false start, now rather well organised and my day runs pretty much to plan and I do try to put some time aside for my writing, I seldom get to use that time for what it was meant for. My day should start around 5.30am, with a stumble out of bed and into the kitchen to prepare the Mauritian’s lunch and his breakfast. Those of you who know the Mauritian also know how much he loves his food and that to him cereal in the morning is not breakfast. Knowing that