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  The Antiquated Hoover I have shamelessly plagiarised a new and delightful term from a creative friend of mine to whom I will refer as Nonnie Mouse on this stadium (and no, I am not translating directly from the Afrikaans “op hierdie stadium”) for no other reason than that I could not in my wildest imaginings share a stadium let alone a stage with his humble but huge talent. So the best I can hope for is that he will regard it as a compliment that I have sucked up this new and glorious contraption: the Antiquated Hoover to convey my latest ramblings. Manipulation. Say this word in company these days and you may as well spell it with an F. My guess is that no person alive would admit to being manipulative if you asked them outright. I’ve even cringed at the thought that I myself might have become quite adept at this particular skill. After all, I have convinced at least two toddlers in my lifetime that their food is actually made up of small, heaped teaspoonfuls of aeroplanes (yes,...

LITTLE GIRLS  LITTLE BOYS ~ By Stellamarie Nel Little girls, silly things, sugar and spice And all things nice Lots of wires and tricky bits To keep a man about his wits Little boys, scruffy knees, sticks and stones And broken bones Taking everything apart Stealing every mother’s heart Off to play we all go, think we know what we should know Soon we find that girls and boys Play different games with different toys. Girls are quick and learn quite soon, whom it is that calls the tune The game is easy, old as time, Catch on quick and you’ll be fine. Easy things to fix are boys, with tinker, tailor, soldier toys Hammer and nails will fix ‘em quick And Chicken soup when they are sick But boys take everything apart, like choo-choo trains and little girls hearts And then the pieces just won’t fit, no matter how they fiddle with it! Little girls, little boys Different games, different toys And no matter how we look at it I wonder:  Were they made to fit? S.N.

  Always Right and Always Wrong Met on a bridge one day They stopped for a while each watching the view Then Always Wrong went on his way. “Oh, I wouldn’t go there,” Said Always Right,  “I’ve just come from over there There are terrible things like lions and bears And monsters that catch you unawares, You should turn around now while you still have the time and go back the way you came.” Said Always Wrong, “Mm, I was wondering, as I looked through the trees and beyond That one never can see quite far enough to decide what is right or wrong Maybe I should sit on this bench and watch the world for a bit and dream Maybe watch the birds who are watching the fish and  Wriggle my toes in the stream  “Oh I wouldn’t do that,” Always Right replied, “just think of the ecoli and what if you slipped and hit your head or got shat on by a bird flying by?” “You could be right, “Always Wrong said”  “But what if today you were wrong? It’s not all that bad to be Wrong you know, i...

I miss the girl with braided hair Sliding down the banister Ever climbing  Dreaming Saving Little bits of  Shells and pebbles Feathers, dropped by angels’ wings Still Entranced by little things Like sparrows pecking at her feet Sold for a farthing Lives so fleet Moments gone Like shifting tide  She who played and laughed Has died A little more each day she went No dreaming, climbing  Farthing spent

A number of years after my mother passed away, my father gave me one of her recipe books. He also gave me another, much older book which he thought was hers but which, as it turned out was my grandmother’s.  I am not really attracted to the whole notion of trying out new recipes despite being a fairly creative person and rather enjoying food although I have friends and family who are constantly swopping recipes and trying to squeeze secret sauces or special ingredients out of one another. I am not the least bit interested in the whole chemistry of food and how and why certain flavours act harmoniously together and why others clash spectacularly. My youngest, son, who has a degree in hospitality and has spent many hours in the kitchen playing with flavours, effortlessly throws together a fabulous dish of salmon and some green stuff and something nutty and I’m in seventh heaven eating it! I do not have the slightest inclination to know how he created it. He often reprimands me for ra...

Rock hopping comes naturally to most children. As a young child, I somehow always found a path that required a certain sure-footedness. One such path was a narrow little retainer wall which ran along the front of a neighbour's hedge becoming higher as the road and sidewalk ran down to join the main road which ran through the city. The little adventurer in me had worked out that I could jump onto the little wall where it started at only about a foot off the ground and run all the way around the border of the house, jumping over the gap where the gate and steps met and continue along as the wall got higher to the corner, which at about 3 metres, was the highest point of the wall which ran around the large property. It then levelled out as it continued around the corner and I could jump off at the other end where it was only about one metre off the ground. Why I did this, I never really understood when running down the sidewalk would have been much safer and much easier.  The ability ...

HERE ARE THE PAGES STILL COVERED IN FLOUR   Here’s the recipe for coffee biscuits, still covered in a little flour Meringues and Koeksisters and yummy Swiss Roll, Everything sweet, savoury and sour.   Here’s the recipe borrowed from a friend, Nothing those days was sugar-free, Lemon marmalade and Hertzog cookies, (some said Jan Smutsies when invited to tea.)   Favourite pages, stained over years Now I smell them, and taste the tears As I remember licking bowl and beater Nothing more vivid, nothing sweeter.   Fast come the memories of learning the trick Of rolling the dough, “not too thin, nor too thick.” Of copping a wallop with the same wooden spoon That mixed in the flavours and kept us in tune.   Here’s the recipe for happy days, Cornflour still sticks to the well-turned pages Here’s the smell of a happy childhood That will not go in a thousand ages