Rambles from World's End

So the Mauritian braved a 36 hour flight back to South Africa to visit his ailing father who we believed would not be alive for much longer. It was a tough decision to make. Do we wait and see, drop everything and make plans, go as a family of does he go alone? We discussed, theorised and speculated for two days, speaking to this one, “Skyping” that one, phoned doctors and specialists. It was insane! Eventually after a sobering discussion with my parents we agreed that he should go home and to keep the costs as low as we could the Mauritian would undertake this international trip alone. He was not thrilled with the idea at all. The Mauritian has flown internationally twice before, once at the age of eight the next when we moved to the end of the world. Both times he had simply followed instructions; the prospect of travelling so far on his own turned him into a bundle of nerves and his favourite sentence started with “What if...” The poor chap had managed to work himself up so much

Seventeen weeks and counting, twenty three more and there will be another one of us about. Everyone keeps asking me if I want a boy or a girl, I keep saying girl because of the possibility of “hand me downs” from the Butterfly. Rather cost effective. But I have no illusions, just because I say I want a girl we’ll have a boy. Mother Nature has a wicked sense of irony! The Mauritian confessed to not being sure if he wants a boy or a girl, he’s used to girls so another one would be easier but a boy would be nice to carry on the family name. Ask the Butterfly if she wants a baby brother or sister she’ll tell you with conviction a brother one day and “a tista” the next day. My life long friend says she’s praying for a girl because she doesn’t like the boy’s name we have chosen. That really is one for the books, my lifelong friend praying, yeah right! My Auckland Angel says it’s a boy only because once I confessed to feeling hungry all day long. Our Chinese friend with his knowledge of ea

A little while ago I was in the bank sorting out a few things and had the displeasure of dealing with a real twat. It wasn't that he wasn't good at his job; in fact he was efficient and concise but far too familiar for my taste. When I worked in a bank we were taught to always address our clients by their surnames unless otherwise directed by themselves, to never ask personal questions that did not have any relevance to their requests and to never assume we knew them well just because we’ve served them a few times before. This numb nut I was cursed with obviously missed those sessions when he started on his post. He started off well enough with a greeting and an offer to help, but one look at my passport and he was off: “Do you have your account or customer number with you please SAM?” The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention. Now, now calm yourself it’s a common enough occurrence for it to be innocent! So I gently correct him and hand over my card, he smiles

Apparently that blur that’s just gone past me was the year 2010. How the hell did that happen? What was I doing that allowed the year to go by unnoticed? I know I spent a lot of time on housework, ironing, cooking and being a mum. I know I wrote a few blogs and emails and had “chats” with friends and family via “Skype” and “Facebook.” I know I spent many hours outdoors soaking up the summer sun, went on walks on the foreshore or through the park with friends and shivered through the winter. I know I grew another year older and my Butterfly now has three birthdays “under her belt.” I know we became official residence at “World’s End,” went out for dinners and lunches, travelled north to visit friends, drank wine and too much coffee. I know we sang, talked, argued and discussed. I know we baked muffins, roasted chickens, moulded chocolates, had picnics in our back yard and ate far too many crumpets. I know the Mauritian changed his job description, the Butterfly discovered how to “back

All the pregnancy books I've read suggest keeping a diary of the pregnancy. Keep a record of how one is feeling day to day to help you deal with, share and ultimately remember the experience. Now you all know that I am a strong believer in the power of the written word, but come on now. Who on earth wants to sit down at a computer or with a pen and paper and describe how she is feeling in those first 12 weeks? My diary would have gone something like this: Day 1: WTF? Day 2: The Mauritian can get his own breakfast Day 3: Ginger biscuits do not work Day 4: Blah! Day 5: You must be kidding! Day 6: Midwife appointment at 2.30pm must write on forehead so don’t forget Day 7: Keeping a diary sucks And that would be that. One gets far too caught up in the misery and agony of morning sickness to care about writing it down. Besides, who wants to remember how crappy they felt? Morning sickness is not a pleasant experience, one that is best forgotten. To those who think keeping

So I am officially into my second trimester and what a relief to be three and a bit months pregnant. Two years ago I suffered a miscarriage and I did not realise just how much that loss affected me psychologically. That pregnancy came at a very bad time in our lives as we prepared to move our lives and home to “World’s end” and in hind sight our first year here would have been that much harder with a new born in tow. So I rationalised then that perhaps it was for the best and I still feel that way now and I don’t “regret” the miscarriage. I had an awesome doctor whose clear thinking and ability to explain the “why” and “how” of the miscarriage helped me immensely to cope with the trauma and I will always be grateful to her, and her phenomenal pain killers! The Mauritian, never someone to make a fuss of me, watched my every move and constantly checked on me asking how I was feeling and I even got away with being a nag for a while. I rationalised then that I coped with it all because it