Quirky Gran Blog Archives

Grannies Also Have Rights

Has Quirky Gran uncovered a Conspiracy Theory to prevent us oldies from taking our daily pills?

I’m all for children's rights but what about the Granny Generation? Of course children should not have easy access to tempting pills, but what about those of us who have reached the biblical three score years and ten? Shouldn't we be allowed access to our pills?

Evidence: It's an extraordinarily difficult exercise to merely extricate our pills from their containers. Here our multi‐tasking skills, which surely diminish with approaching age, either come into practice, or do not.

First hurdle: Decipher the signs on the lid, then manipulate our arthritic fingers to simultaneously press to the right or left and push down the lid. All this while still holding the container. This applies to many liquid medication bottles as well.

Don't pharmaceutical advisors have any elderly family‐members?

Written instructions? And why do they print important instructions in miniscule faint grey font? Almost impossible for our diminishing eye‐sight. Not granny‐friendly at all. Someone must have had a really bad granny experience... Before our eyes remain permanently scrunched up ‐ a probable after‐effect not mentioned in the pamphlet ‐ we might decide that it's better for our health to forget about the muti, and remain with the pain.

Always supposing we remember that's what we're meant to be doing in the first place...

Conspiracy To Cull The Aged Through Starvation?

Sometimes I buy tins of food that have the tin "ring" for easy opening ‐ a euphemism if there ever was one. In my case (and I know I’m not alone in this) the ring generally remains on my finger, cutting into my flesh. Culling the old and infirm by ptomaine poisoning? Or perhaps simply by starvation? For the tin remains 90% closed.

It' even more unpleasant if it's a sardine tin. Eau de sardine does not have the same allure as Esther Lauder's ‘Beautiful’. As my oily fingers testify.

So I search for a tin opener ‐ and miraculously find three: different shapes, sizes and colours, but, alas, the thinness and curve of the tin is not compatible with any of them.

Desperate Solution: Carefully prise the leering tin open with a knife. Warning : This activity can be dangerous!

A Fishy Question?
On the subject of sardines: whatever happened to fish oil being vital for one's health? We were recommended, nay pushed, by the media and ‘knowledgeable’ friends to include fish oil and fishy pills in our daily diet. That was then...

When did you last see sardines or tuna, or pilchards in fish oil? Today it seems to be only generic brine or vegetable oil? Grannies want the genuine oil. Now! Because we deserve it.

Beware! I feel a Granny Protest coming up.

Bananas In My Soup

Do you remember angelic‐looking Shirley Temple? She was sweetness itself as she sang her signature song Animal Crackers in my Soup. (Maybe that appealing little face was why so many children of that time were called Shirley.)

In my family we went one step further than mere crackers: bananas in my soup!

When I was a toddler, there was nothing angelic about mealtimes at 15 Chamberlain Road. They were not happy times for either my mother or me. I was one of those awful children who firmly closes their mouth ‐ except perhaps to scream ‐ at the sight of food. (How times have changed; these days I'm a serious foodie!) Soup was generally acceptable. But not sufficient, my mother thought. In desperation, offering me a variety of foods ranging from normal to weird, she tried a slice of banana. Eureka! This was something different! Soon I was having a slice between every spoonful of soup. Bizarre as it was, the contrasting tastes and textures were a hit, and I ‘licked the platter clean’’. Peace, if not sanity, was restored.

I must confess that even today ‐ but only when I'm alone ‐ I surreptitiously indulge my zuppa a la frutta, the taste of childhood... Not quite Nigella, but deliciously comforting!

My family are quite embarrassed by the memory of this eccentricity; certainly none of them ever indulged in this strange habit. And I had to promise not to enjoy my unusual preference in public. What would their friends say?!

A Taste of Honey

Can you open a honey bottle without tearing your nails, never mind your hair out? One successful wrenching open doesn't mean that it will whip open more easily the next time.

And beware of those cute beehive‐shaped honey containers. The novel opening at the base of the hive may attract winding queues of ants in the grocery cupboard, and create a sticky mess on your fingers and the dining‐room tablecloth. (Lucky old Pooh Bear didn't have such problems. He just went right in!)

And another thing: where does your honey come from? What happened to ‘Proudly South African’? Do our local bees really need additional stock from their overseas cousins? The labels on the plastic beehives tell us that the contents ‘may’ originate from Thailand, Paraguay, Bulgaria ‐ even South Africa!

‘Where have All the Flowers Gone’ , we sang wistfully in our youth. Do today's bees buzz a similar song of woe?

What's So Special?

Remember when shopping was a pleasure? Today it's like trying to do a cryptic puzzle, but with little satisfaction at the result.

My eyes fall on the magic words: SPECIAL! A bargain combo.
Aha; I see: A pocket of potatoes, a pocket of butternut and a third one of onions. My back creaks at the thought of getting them into the kitchen, never mind worrying about what delicacies I'll manage to concoct with them. Calling Jamie Oliver…

The kids have left home, hubby and I have smaller appetites than we had fifty years ago, and my imagination has frizzled as well. Share with the neighbours? Angie next door is on a low carb diet; her husband likes pumpkin but hates butternut, and how many servings of onion soup can anyone stomach?

So would this really be a bargain?? Oh sigh; time for some arithmetic…

Stop the trolley in the middle of aisle 22; open handbag; find and carefully take out cellphone, making sure half the bag's contents don't fall out; fumble for the calculator app and then do an Einstein: try to compare with the normal prices of the three vegetables. Not for the profoundly technologically challenged like this QG… To quote the delightful child in an advert I've never tired of: ‘It's complicated.’

Blood pressure mounts; must get home before the fearful hour of loadshedding. There's more than spinach (at a real bargain), that's wilting.

Another cunning ploy regularly offered: Buy TWO and get R10 off. I need a magnifying glass (still on the to‐buy‐for‐me list) to read the original price of a single packet. Screw up my eyes… Success! Now I'm ready for another calculator run. I decide on succumbing to the bargain: two large packets of peaches. I'll need to stew some, and force‐feed hubby and me fresh and/or stewed at every possible moment, so as to justify the ‘bargain’.

No wonder there's a plague of ‘tummy bugs’… Add some Imodium to the shopping list. (No bargains there…)

Toothpaste

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth! Cleaned.

Even buying basic toothpaste can confuse the Granny Generation. After twenty minutes studying the numerous possibilities on the shelves (I didn’t get as far as the different sizes and prices...), I desperately consider enrolling at Medical School for the course Toothpaste 101.

Life was simpler in the olden days.

‘Did you Maclean your teeth today?’ asked the ads of my childhood. Picture of film star with even, white teeth and a radiantly dazzling smile. Definitely not me or Maggie next door. We'd confidently Macleaned during our teenage years (before and after orthodontic treatment) ‐ sadly without the promised spectacular results.

Then toothpaste colour came into the picture. Blue, red and green ‐ each designed to do a different job ‐ squishing from the tube in a remarkably orderly fashion. I still don't understand, though, how each colour ‘does its thing’ when they all get squashed together inside my mouth. Isn't science wonderful?

We have so many toothpaste choices. Added salt: active as against dormant? Pink salt? Black salt? And among the many plant‐flavoured offerings, why not aloe? Or avocado? Nowadays even cannabis?

All too much for this Quirky Gran... It's just toothpaste we're talking about!

There's A Place Somewhere...

Do you also put things away in ‘a safe place ’, so safe that you can't remember where you've hidden them? Sometimes the place is so cunningly contrived that it's only to be found when I'm searching for something else. My days of treasure hunting should be long over. Arrested childhood? My friend A, the tidiness freak, can't understand my dilemma. Put things away, straight away, in their place... if only...

My friend, B, has an original, simple solution. He has a sturdy wooden box in the study labelled ‘The Safe Place’. That's where he puts everything that has no set abode. I might just give it a try.

Any better suggestions?

Never Say Never

Each Sunday, as Mom popped her pills into their daily sections for the week, she'd rhythmically chant: ‘Two little orange ones, one large white one, three pale pinks and one ENORMOUS capsule.’ (Did I mention that she was a music teacher?) I'd sigh and roll my eyes, vowing to myself, ‘Please, don't let me go that way.’

However, the years have passed and I've reluctantly bought a purple plastic pillbox. As I fill it silently each Sunday, I hear echoes of Mom's mantras!

Now there's one less thing for me to stress about. I can see whether I've swallowed the day's supply or not. And it's fairly difficult to lose a purple pillbox ‐ even for me!

Apologies, Mom! You really knew best!

Sharing is Caring? A pre‐Covid story

In the doctor's crowded waiting room a quiet buzz from the patients, interrupted by the regular sniffing of a toddler, drooling onto a once‐blue T‐shirt, while his mother, oblivious, chats on her cellphone…

The receptionist's phone rings shrilly and we are treated, loudly and clearly, to: ‘Dr N needs a booking for Mrs H, Theatre 3, for an emergency hysterectomy.’ I'm sure Mrs H would be devastated if she knew that her impending operation, plus her medical history, her medical aid and banking details were being broadcast, fortissimo, to the fascinated listeners. ‘And she's diabetic’, the receptionist continues, in dramatic tones. Much tutting and shaking of heads by the sympathetic audience. Knitting, gossiping and even texting are suspended. Our own Reality programme! Perhaps I'd phone in a few days to hear how Mrs H was doing… Maybe she'd need some chicken soup…

Do We Really Care?
The booking is noted and we return to boring mode. Another patient enters, and greets an acquaintance with a friendly, ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘And you?’ ‘Good, thank you!’ (So why are you two clogging up the room and the doctor's time?) On the other hand would you want to share your symptoms with a room full of eager strangers?

Crossing the Barrier

I suffer from Dystychiphobia… Don’t worry, it's not infectious or contagious and it's not related to the Corona virus. However, the fear of having an accident is no joke.

Instead of Raindrops Falling on my Head, I have a fear of falling traffic booms or barriers. Whenever I pass under one at my nearest shopping centre parkade, I duck my head and say a silent prayer. And like cats sleazing up to those who dislike or at worst, fear them, I've learnt that, if there's a boom problem it will happen as I try to enter. I have a weird history of booms either not opening at all or descending unexpectedly.

Please believe me it's frightening not quirky… Train booms are the worst. If they come down early, I might be ‘late’. I'm the curse of other drivers who hoot impatiently while I hesitate for the right moment before crossing. I don't trust the warning lights; once the lights have stopped flashing and the train has passed, I wait until it is out of sight, then whizz across, having checked that another train isn't approaching from the opposite direction. Should you see a driver try to beat an oncoming train, it’s definitely not me.

But that’s not all. Every time I enter or leave my home garage I have a similar problem. Will the electronic garage door stop halfway up or down, like the Grand Old Duke of York, or will it suddenly come crashing down? As I come and go several times a day, my blood pressure races accordingly. Technological progress is not necessarily healthy.

Any fellow-sufferers? How do you cope? All suggestions will be gratefully received and seriously studied.

Because It's Good for You!

Mom had anticipated Mary Poppins and her ‘spoonful of sugar’ to make the medicine go down. She'd crush aspirin (or was it Disprin?) in sugar, and it was only as an adult, when I queried the fact that the taste had changed, that the truth was revealed! Today, my grandchildren enjoy the same deception!

Do you remember that particularly odious weekly remedy that many of us had to endure ‐ ‘California Syrup of Figs’, to ‘clean out your insides’. The taste was truly horrible. I always hoped that Mom would forget that it was Friday night, the designated Cleaning‐Out night!

And who could forget the slimy, fishy‐odoured cod liver oil? The after‐effects of swallowing your spoonful was offset by a few sips of orange‐juice, but the fishiness remained for ages. That was to make you healthy and free of colds… I discovered, too late, the malt addition, which apparently successfully disguised ‘that’ taste.

And the camphor bags that were pinned to one's vest to ward off colds and worse… at least that smelt quite pleasant, and you didn't have to swallow the contents!

I hesitate to remind you, in today's rise of veganism and the extraordinary meat prices, that a piece of raw steak was used to soothe bruises and bring down lumps after a fall. No, I don't know what happened to the meat after its medicinal use!

A Few of my Favourite Things

There's nothing like music for taking you back in time… Did you know that Pat Boone wrote the words to the Exodus song? I was a Pat Boone fan in my teenage years. I belonged to his Fan Club, rushing excitedly to the Scottsville Tearoom in Maritzburg to buy the latest edition of Outspan ‐ or was it Personality? ‐ to drool over the latest news of my hero! I even dragged Mom to hear him live in Durban! April Love, Love Letters in the Sand and all that!

Apparently Pat Boone had been listening to the stirring Exodus music by Ernest Gold and wondered why there were no words. Suddenly the words appeared to him. He wrote them on the back of the nearest piece of paper, which happened to be a Christmas card, and the Exodus song was born! Gold approved of the words and the song was recorded by many singers, including Bing Crosby and Andy Williams. Boone recently donated the card to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial in Jerusalem. Although he'd visited Israel several times he'd never performed there. This time he sang his words to the immortal song: ‘This land is mine’.

The Bioscope: Kom Saam Vanaand

Do you remember your first visit to the ‘bioscope’? I certainly do, with a certain amount of shame! I was eight years old, and Kom Saam Vanaand, with Al Debbo, was showing in Ceres where I was spending a holiday with my aunt, uncle and cousins. Such excitement in the village!

Never mind that I could barely understand a word of Afrikaans beyond Ja and Nee… My mother dressed me up in my frilly party dress for the occasion. I was a little surprised that none of the cousins were similarly dressed, but they had been to bioscope before. Barry, my teenage cousin, heaved me onto the rear carrier of his dusty bike, and off we rode together with a convey of cousins and friends. ‘Die niggie van die stad,’ they explained with embarrassment to their friends.

The seats were ‘banke’, backless school benches, and during a particularly sad part of the film (I could follow the actions if not the words) I lent backwards and fell into the row behind me! In my best dress! As they hauled me up into my row, the shrieks of the other kids crescendoed to grand hysteria. Unexpected extra entertainment! The cousins were not impressed. When we returned home Barry exploded with the pent‐up rage of an humiliated thirteen year old: ‘Never again! Never!’ he shrieked.

For those who can remember names from so far back, the cast of the film included Pieter‐Dirk Uys's parents, Hannes Uys and Helga Bassel. The popular group Hendrik Susan en sy Orkes, together with Nico Carstens and Danie Bosman, provided the music.

Wine, Women & Song

The haunting song, ‘Volare’ was made unforgettable for many of my generation by Dean Martin, among others. It was inspired by two Chagall paintings ‐ as well as by love and wine!

Apparently Domenico Modugno, an Italian songwriter, fell asleep after several drinks while waiting for his friend, fellow musician Antonio Migliacci. After some colourful dreams he awoke and suddenly noticed two Chagall reproductions on the wall opposite: one of a man with half his face painted blue, and the other of a man flying. Modugno almost immediately wrote the lyrics of a song about a man ‘dipinto di blu’ (painted in blue) and flying (volare means ‘to fly’) and together the friends produced the everlasting song which recalls how his sweetheart's blue eyes made him soar and fly.

After phenomenal success in 1958, winning at the San Remo Festival and being placed third in the Eurovision Song Contest, ‘Volare’ became one of the most popular Italian songs of all time. Hearing Dean Martin's version still sends me soaring! Grannies may forget lots of things, but not that!

Shopping

Thanks to modern technology and much prodding and help from my children, I can now successfully order groceries on‐line! Hello 21st century!

I think back to shopping in Maritzburg in the '50s… Mom's phone call to Ross's grocery store to place the weekly order, which would be delivered later by van. No steering a trolley which, Frank Sinatra‐like goes its own way! Not much choice of brands to stagger the brain in those days. Tea, as I recall, was Five Roses. Perhaps Joko came later? No degrees needed to work out the best buy and if the ‘special’ really was special!

Mom didn’t have to hunt for a product by trying to decipher the direction of a languid hand flap indicating ‘It's over there’ by a bored attendant.

No crawling into the shop's fridge in those days, to find the freshest milk containers ‐ cunningly stacked at the back while the front‐runners could become maas by the time you reached home. Oh no! Milk, in glass bottles, was delivered to the door by the milkman, in a van, according to the coupons you’d left at the front door. And the milk bottles remained there, in full view, until you collected them later in the morning…

No decisions about fat free, 1%, 2% or long‐lasting. All milk was full cream, with about an inch of real cream at the top!

The ‘ice‐cream men’ did their Pied Piper magic by ringing the bell of their tricycle cart. My favourite was the cone‐shaped Twirly Whirly. You unwrapped the paper cone as you licked the ice‐cream until only the paper remained. Next in popularity was the chocolate‐covered Eskimo Pie, and finally the Wafer, which became squishy as your fingers pressed into the ice cream, so you ended with a soggy wafer and messy face and hands!

Fruit and vegetables from the market were shared with friends, as most small families didn’t need whole pockets of produce, and of course it was cheaper. Aunty Belle had the first chest freezer among our friends and I can still picture her topping and tailing whole pockets of fresh beans at her kitchen table. I remember my dad enquiring about an impending famine! She was ahead of her time, making sure that her family would be ‘full of beans’ for a long time!

Travels with Quirky Gran

Have you checked your bucket list lately? Top of my list is ‘Travel’, and possibly ‘Living abroad for a short while’. I so enjoyed Travels with My Aunt ‐ the book, the film and the musical ‐ many years ago. But sadly, due to the present world health situation, any plans for Travels with Quirky Gran remain a dream.

So… Plan B: Armchair travels, courtesy of television. And helpful commentary, courtesy of Quirky Gran.

Comfortably settled in my easy chair, a cuppa and a ‘little something’ at hand, I now enjoy hassle‐free holidays with a difference ‐ no searching for passports, no battling with overseas currency, no agonizing over what to pack or getting to the airport on time.

Instead: other people's house‐hunting, here we come! Quirky Gran joins people of all ages, from students to retirees, who are changing their countries, homes and lifestyles. She has created a reality show with a difference!

Naturally she becomes totally involved in the searches, advising the prospective buyers from her comfy chair.

First the young Oregon couple who were searching for an apartment in Paris… (Some people get wonderful job opportunities…)

‘Oh, the French charm,’ gushes the young lady, as she teeters precariously in her high heels on the minute balcony. ‘The view is wonderful, I have to admit,’ Quirky Gran allows grudgingly.

But her job isn't to admire; it's to advise: ‘Are you crazy? Walking up four flights of narrow, winding stairs to your apartment, staggering under your shopping parcels? Never mind ‘the French charm’. And when the children arrive, try manoeuvring a pram, with a screaming baby inside, and the toddler on your hip, plus groceries! A lower floor and an elevator is what you need!’ She shook her head. ‘And a psychiatrist,’ she muttered.

Then it's the parents of three young children who are moving from landlocked Lesotho to Scotland. Despite the sea and the lochs in their new country, the mother simply had to hear the sound of running water from her home. ‘You'll hear lots of falling water in that rainy area,’ Quirky Gran thought wryly.

So they want a house with a stream running through the grounds? So picturesque… Is it only grannies who see danger, a child chasing a ball into the water?

It seems that wisdom doesn't necessarily come with age. Next were grandparents, celebrating their Golden Wedding, who fall in love with an old farmhouse in the scenic Tuscan countryside, because it reminds the wife of a novel she’d enjoyed! ‘So quiet and peaceful,’ she drools.

‘So far from the shops,’ Quirky Gran barks at the screen. ‘Look at the uneven ground and the rickety steep stairs! Nothing romantic about replacing knees, ankles or hips in a foreign country. Get real! Move nearer to the city centre, and a hospital,’ she warns.

‘But they wouldn't listen,’ I think self‐righteously, leaning back in my easy chair. Perhaps Quirky Gran could get a job as practical advisor to prospective buyers…

Superstitions

It's a Puzzlement!
Superstitions, also known as Old Wives Tales (I rather resent the term!) or Bobbe‐mieses (Granny Tales), were part of my childhood and are difficult to dismiss, however old you are.

If you climb through a window, you won't grow. A pint‐sized friend is convinced of this, having been passed through a train window as a child.
Always leave a house the same way you went in — a reference to being brought out in a coffin, presumably using the back door.
Similarly, when in bed your feet shouldn't face the door — another morbid one, as a body is usually removed from a room feet first.

Tall Food Stories

Don't eat cheese at night — it will ‘sit’ on your stomach. (If only QG was a cartoonist!)
Don't swallow grape pips as they will sprout inside you and
Don't drink water after eating fruit as the undigested fruit will float inside you! (again)
Drink hot milk from a saucer, to ease a wheeze. Alas, this may have serious consequences as dairy products actually aggravate the wheezing, my asthmatic cousin has sadly discovered.

Theatre superstitions

Never whistle in the theatre. This one has a reason: Stage hands used to whistle their instructions backstage. Other whistling might confuse their work and cause accidents such as the curtain suddenly rising while they are still setting the stage.
Do not mention the name Macbeth in the theatre. The play is reputed to be cursed after the actor playing Lady Macbeth became ill and died before — or perhaps during — the opening performance in 1606. There have been many recorded disasters since then — some even quite recent. To avoid the curse, actors refer to the play as ‘The Scottish Play’.
Never wish an actor ‘Good luck’ before going on stage. That is considered as bringing bad luck. Instead say ‘Break a leg!’ The phrase seems to have been first used around 1920, and one explanation for it is that the ‘leg’ was a rope barrier behind which unemployed actors waited to be called to be offered work. Breaking past this leg meant that you'd been offered work — and pay. So ‘break a leg’ was a wish that an actor would be called to perform. Today it wishes actors a successful performance.
Opera singers wish each other good luck by saying ‘Toi, toi, toi’ with fingers kissing lips. This is to ward off demons, who bring bad luck.

What would Bobbe think!

Ag Pleez Daddy

Ag Pleez, Daddy,
Won't you help me choose a toothbrush?
It's all too much for Quirky Grann‐ee.

I've checked them at the shops and I've chatted to the dentist,
So here's the information,
Daddy, pleez help me.

Bristles, soft or hard, or even me‐di‐um
will ban‐ish the plaque
and stop the pain in your gum.

Electric battery or plain and simple manual,
Smart swivel heads that travel north and south —
They'll remove bacteria and any other sort of germs
leaving it sparkle‐ing inside your mouth.

No more pla-astic, only use bamboo —
totally combustible; disposable too;
Ecologi‐cally sound, we're environment'ly bound
To save the planet — it's the right thing to do.

And ag pleez don't forget
The warning of our caring vet:
‘Dental care's essential for your darling pet!’

SO: Ag Pleeeez, Daddy,
Which toothbrushes should I get?

With acknowledgements to Jeremy Taylor

Greetings

There's nothing like a cheery greeting to brighten one's day. When I was a student, the cantankerous Head of the College of Music would occasionally confuse and upset me by returning my shy ‘Good morning, Dr C’ with a cynical ‘Is it?’ or ‘Why?’.

Another strange response was given by attractive Mr G, who ignored my mumbled greeting as we passed each other at the entrance. When he reached the opposite end of the building, 200 metres away, he turned round and wished me a hearty ‘Good Morning, Miss L’ that resounded through the College. Why can't people just act normally?

In my single days, when I was teaching, I stayed at a private hotel, where the residents were mainly elderly (probably a similar age to mine today). Greeting and politely enquiring about someone's health took on real meaning. We few young ones soon learnt not to ask how anyone was feeling as we'd be told with relish and in seemingly infinite detail. The chair‐ladies, as we called them, sat on the raffia chairs on the stoep from one meal to the next (each in their own designated chair, and heaven help you if you usurped one), watching us come and go with interest. It was in the days before South Africa was allowed television and their entertainment was limited.

‘Hmm… I wonder if they'll get engaged. She's been out with him every night this week,’ Mrs Know‐All commented, as Maria's boyfriend walked into the hotel carrying a bunch of flowers. She added, in more than a stage whisper, ‘You wouldn't believe the time they came home on Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning!’ Raised eyebrows and a knowing look, suggesting possible scandalous goings on, almost like in Last Tango in Paris. The poor young man blushed, horrified, never to appear there again.

‘Hello! Where are you going?’ Mrs F asked young Sven, a taciturn Dane, once too often. ‘Ow‐oot!’, he replied as he strode hastily to his car. ‘What a rude young man!’ spluttered Granny G. Discussing the ill-mannered ‘youth of today’ kept them busy chattering until bedtime!

Quirky Gran knows better! She responds in modern terminology to greetings and questions about her health with a brief ‘I'm good, thanks!’ She's becoming quite ‘with it’! On the other hand she's not yet reduced to spending her days on a raffia chair with nothing to do…

Only One Name

‘Why do we have only one name each?’ my twin daughters used to moan. ‘Everyone else has two!’ I wonder how the parents of the Rosenkowitz sextuplets coped with their super‐naming problem? It was difficult enough for David and me to agree on a suitable name for each of the twins, especially as we learnt only three weeks before their birth that there were two of them! (In those days it was considered dangerous to have X‐rays earlier on in one's pregnancy. So there were no scans and eerie photographs with which to regale our family and friends.)

Our tastes in names couldn't be more different — in fact it's amazing that the girls had names at all! And then, when Darrell arrived, we couldn't bless him with two names when his sisters had only one each!

Another family member was so upset at not having two names that she added a second initial of her own choice! It was ‘N’, standing for ‘Nothing’!

It seems that name‐changing was quite popular. A friend of ours took the law into her own hands and added another name to make her signature look more distinguished, and another one changed the spelling to make her name look more interesting! Even Anne of Green Gables constantly reminded people that there was an ‘e’ at the end of her name. She was not plain ‘Ann’!

I wasn't immune either! As an avid schoolgirl reader I'd noticed that the addition of marks above certain letters made names look really distinguished! With no knowledge of how these symbols affected the sounds of words, when I was about twelve years old I added a circumflex to the first e of my name, so that it became ê, and I became Cêcile! My school headmistress, a stickler for the correct way to speak, pronounced my name accordingly, and throughout my schooldays I was called ‘Sayceel’! I lost the accent as soon as I left school and reverted to plain ‘Cecile’ (Ceceel) — without the ‘kappie’.

A warning to those choosing names for their babies. Check the word that the initial letters form. No child will appreciate going through life as Peter Ivan Grant or Mary Althea Darby. Surnames are very important! And remember that girls are quite likely to change their surnames. Exotic names don't always gel with everyday surnames as Amaryllis Cohen, Enrico Smith, and Gilinda Grubb will surely agree. And spare a thought for poor Shawn Lamb.

Musical mothers, keep your favourites in the music cabinet; no Brunnhilde Stott, Tosca van der Merwe or Amadeus de Lange, please!

One name, children, can be quite enough.

Pic for blog-21: italian girl (shutterstock.com)

A Little Knowledge Can Be a Dangerous Thing

My Italian conversation is reasonably OK, depending on the speed of whoever is talking to me, but I recall some early embarrassing mistakes. On my first visit to Rome — more than a few decades ago — a girl friend and I met two young Italian men who were studying English in order to advance their work prospects. Luigi and Carlo were very happy to practise their English while showing us the sights. As they spent so much time taking us around the city during the daytime, I asked, or thought I was asking, if they ever worked. I was surprised at their horrified reactions. The word for work is similar to that for wash. I had asked if they ever washed!

I was not alone in making linguistic errors. While travelling in Europe, my young niece and a friend had a simple system for finding accommodation. One of them remained with the luggage at their arrival point, while the other walked around looking for a suitable inexpensive place to stay. On their first visit to Italy, my niece returned triumphantly from her search, hailed a taxi and confidently announced to the taxi driver, ‘Albergo, per favore’, ‘Which Albergo?’ he asked, shaking his head, mystified. ‘Albergo,’ she repeated with obvious frustration. ‘It's written in huge letters on the front of the building.’ This confusion continued for a while, to their mutual annoyance, until the penny/lira dropped. ‘Albergo’ means ‘hotel’! So the disgruntled driver drove around the area from hotel to hotel while the euros mounted, until my niece recognised the particular ‘albergo’ that she had booked into! Actual name: Albergo Dante. As my mother used to say: One should learn something new each day!

Sometimes your ignorance can affect your health. On a stifling, hot day while travelling in Sicily, David and I, exhausted after walking all morning, stopped for a light drink at a trattoria near the tourist bus terminus. David ordered aqua minerale frizzante (sparkling water) but I decided, ‘When in Sicily do as the Sicilians do’ and asked for their renowned limoncello. Made from their famous Sicilian lemons, it should be refreshing; just what I needed.

The waiter looked surprised when I ordered a large glass, but — I thought — he didn't know how much walking we'd done. This, it turned out, was no light, refreshing fruit juice at all, but a powerful liqueur! Half a glass later I was as sparkling as the aqua minerale! When it was time to return to the bus I heaved myself from the chair and staggered to the terminus, clutching David's arm for support. On arrival we were accosted by the obligatory souvenir‐sellers. ‘Take some bottles of limoncello home’, the bus driver encouraged us. Even in my weak state I understood enough to decline as vigorously as I could.

Limoncello? A liqueur glass for Quirky Gran, per favore!

Just books

Quirky Gran loves books, from those which were part of her childhood, like old friends bringing back memories of days gone by, to those ‘hot off the press’, with the promise of a world of new experiences.

Oh, the joy of browsing in my special bookshop — which sadly is no longer with us. There were couches to lounge on, friendly assistants who'd greet you by name and eagerly show you the latest book by your favourite author. And even a coffee shop to make you really feel at home, as you savoured the look, the feel and the particular smell of the new books. I could never relax, though, with an espresso and a piece of cake while paging through a book or magazine that wasn't my own. I knew I'd accidently decorate the pages with a drop of strong brew and a scattering of cake crumbs. That is not the way to have to buy a book!

‘They’ say you can't tell a book from its cover, but many of us do! The cover must stand out to grab one's initial interest. New book covers often tell us that their authors have either won, or been nominated, short‐listed — or even runner‐up — for some distinguished-sounding literary prize! Colour is particularly important too. According to a friend in the book trade, cheerful, bright yellow is top choice, with green at the lowest rung.

Have you ever noticed the colour of a book's pages? Why, surely all book pages are white? Oh no! They come in various shades of cream to beige — not grey! Have a look! You'll be surprised! There's a hierarchy for books too. Glossy white is for stylish eye‐catching coffee table books; humble cream matt is for fiction. Check your books for the many varieties of colours and finishes.

And the font? Firstly size: font size is important. Too small is no good for those readers who are not yet ready for the Large Print shelves. Like with Goldilocks, the not‐too‐small and not‐too‐big print is ‘just right!’.

Length is important too, of course. Why are many book club books so long? Authors don't get paid per word, and some readers find 800 pages too daunting and too heavy and too awkward for arthritic fingers to hold. Big is not always best. Advice to authors: Find a good editor. Anything over 400 pages is acceptable for a text book, but not for Quirky Gran's bedtime reading.

Quirky Gran nods: There's more than words that meet the eye!

I've Become My Mother

Never say ‘Never’! I have found that my mother's obsessions that upset me as a child, have now become mine! And no doubt annoy my own children and grandchildren just as much.

The weather controlled our lives at 15 Chamberlain Road in the '50s. I accepted her instructions (that's what children did in the last mid-century): wearing a vest throughout the year, and layers of woollies in winter while complaining, ‘You feel cold and I have to wear the jersey…’. Even in the Natal summers I'd have to take a jersey whenever I went out, ‘Just in case’.

When Mom came to live with us in Durban in her latter years, she continued to remind her grandchildren to dress according to the weather forecast predictions. However, they were not as submissive as I'd been when she suggested to them that they take a jersey, a raincoat plus their Paddington‐like galoshes! Their stock reply was a cheery: ‘It's in the car, Gran!’ Remember Wendy Fine's popular children's record: ‘There's an Orchestra in My Kitchen’? Well, they kept a Wardrobe in the Car!

Years later I understood. While visiting the grandchildren I heard myself mutter, albeit pianissimo, that they might need raincoats as the weather forecast predicted Stormy Weather… They ignored my recommendation and went their merry coat‐less way. ‘Did you also feel rejected, Mom? Would you feel vindicated if you knew that, these days whenever I go out, rain or shine, I take a jersey or an umbrella with me?’

Like many ‘mature’ people, Mom was perpetually looking for her glasses, pencils or Bic ballpoint pens — important items in her piano‐teaching career. Twenty‐first century Quirky Gran now spends a major part of her day searching — for glasses: reading, everyday, and everyday with anti‐glare. And keys: car, garage, Trellidor, front door (two), remotes and alarms, car and house. All too much for a rapidly maturing gran.

As my friend Avryl wisely says: ‘It's all a matter of discipline! Just put things away, not down!’ ‘ Isn't it genetic?’ I plead, hopefully.

So, here's a suggestion for all computer whizz-grandkids with undisciplined grandmothers: I shall happily present a Granny Award to the inventor of a ‘finder’ for lost glasses, diaries, pens and keys. (Remember the whistling key-finder?) A small step for youth and a large step for us Oldies. Why? According to that annoying television advert: Because we're worth it!

But what goes around comes around… Recently one of my daughters rushed into our lounge, exclaiming dramatically: ‘Help! I've become my mother! I've been searching everywhere for my sunglasses, and here they are — on my head!’

The malady lingers on…

Pic for blog-24: by Robert Anderson on unsplash.com

Missing the Bus in Venice

Unbelievable? Not in our family! We took our children on a tour of the highlights of Europe, not exactly the Grand Tour with three children under the age of twelve (after which they'd have to pay full fare) but it had many memorable moments! I couldn't wait to introduce them to the dream‐like city of Venice, and had taught them a few essential Italian words. However, I'd omitted the much‐repeated Italian word ‘sciopero’ — an industrial strike — to their limited vocabulary.

Indeed, there was a sciopero! A transport strike in the city of 120 islands. The Municipality had organised transport, vaporetti (water buses), to get tourists who, like us, were staying on an island to the mainland of Venice. Having done that, we wondered how to get to Murano to watch the glass-blowers, a priority on the children's bucket list…

I'd noticed a transport official, in full regalia, gesticulating wildly to a group of obvious tourists. He was not, as I'd thought, advertising the next opera at the famous La Fenice, but was from the Tourist Office, offering free transport to Murano! How fortunate that I could understand Italian!

We rushed onto the vaporetto and found five adjacent seats. On arrival at the quaint island we marvelled at the brightly‐painted houses and the delicate tea‐sets and ornaments which we'd seen being made. Not surprisingly, the high point for the children was the delicious pizzas!

After a leisurely walk around the quaint streets and shops we decided it was time to return to Venice. We found the nearest vaporetto stop. Strangely, no one, not even a tourist, to be seen. The family looked at me expectantly. When was the last vaporetto? The operatic‐looking official must surely have mentioned a time? I'd been in such a hurry to get us on board on the way to Murano that I hadn't waited to hear the last instructions. Now I definitely wasn't top of the pops, Italian language expert and all… We rushed to another stop. Empty. I asked a passer‐by, obviously going home after work, when the next vaporetto departed. He looked at his watch and then at me pityingly. It had already left. The sciopero meant that they had stopped earlier than usual.

We stood in a pathetic group at the stop. After quite a while an official‐looking vaporetto passed nearby. We all waved frantically, like castaways on a desert island. And oh joy, it turned around and stopped. Painted on the sides was the word POLIZIA, and several uniformed police stood on board shaking their heads at our predicament! But they kindly offered us a lift to the mainland. How embarrassing! We looked around, hoping no one we knew from Durban saw us being transported in a police vehicle.

By the time we returned to the mainland, the sciopero was over and we returned without further drama to our hotel. Just another story with photos to entertain our friends!

Pic for blog-25: butler holding envelopes by Leah Gluckman

Over to you!

Your great responses to Quirky Gran deserve a special Response Blog!

The ‘I've Become My Mother’ blog brought back memories to many readers. It seems that just as Adam blamed Eve, who blamed the serpent, these days mothers have become the scapegoats. Children blame mothers, who blame their grandmothers… as we perpetuate our fears and fads to our own children, grandchildren and beyond. So when you see Gogos swathed in multiple layers of clothing, come rain or shine, it may not be that they're seriously suffering from the cold, or advancing years, but that they're hearing their mothers telling them to wrap up warmly or to take a raincoat! Be comforted, we are not alone!

RC admits that he keeps three sweaters (different colours, varying warmth?) in his car at all times. I can hear his Mom forcing him, in the nicest possible way, to take a jersey…

BL ends a chat with a life‐long friend in Canada by saying ‘Take a jersey’ — a comforting way of saying ‘Take care; be safe…’.

BM told her grandchildren that if she feels cold then they must wear a jersey. It worked for a while until her bright five‐year‐old grandson said ‘That doesn't make sense!’ And she reluctantly accepted defeat! They make them clever these days!

TL commented that her husband refuses to take a rain jacket or umbrella when walking in the rain. Just like his grandfather, whom he barely knew. How far does the grandparental influence extend, I wonder?

The weather affected us in strange ways. GL's mother insisted on all cutlery being put away, out of sight during a storm as metal attracts lightning. Quirky Gran herself wonders about the danger of metal spikes in umbrellas…

MB advises her grandchildren to blame their inherited idiosyncrasies on their mother. Then when they grow up she says they can blame such craziness on MB herself!

What goes around comes around. HC comments that her kids stop telling her about things that they know will make her worry — just as she does to her mom.

Quirky Gran can relate to that. Timing is vital for a mother's health. I watched my daughters' video of white‐water rafting in Zimbabwe. Why would anyone voluntarily do that? To add to my horror, someone had fallen out of the raft and was bobbing in the crocodile‐infested water. ‘Don't worry, Mom, you can see that I survived’, that daughter reassured me! Certainly ‘after the event’ is the best time for disclosure!

Baking was a really serious event. MS's mother closed all the kitchen doors and windows before taking a cake out of the oven, as a possible breeze would make the cake ‘fall in’. Children were warned not to jump on the floor, shout or make a loud noise during the baking process. A ruined cake was no joke.

And now for something different — mother/daughter foody togetherness:

Mushy remembers the elongated loaf of rye bread and the short, fat, pickled cucumbers that were delivered with the weekly order to her home from Mrs Valk's grocery shop in Wynberg when she was a schoolgirl. The rye bread had a dimple along its backbone, which her mom would cut off and smear with homemade butter. And then the two of them would consume this mouth‐watering delight with glee! ‘When my Dad came home from work in the evening,’ she wrote, ‘he was disgusted, but not surprised, to see how we had mutilated the rye bread…

‘But that wasn't all. We would cut off the ends of the cucumbers, slurp up the pickled juices and finish off the middle bits. Not so crunchy, but still delicious! Oh, for one more taste of the rye dimples and the wonderful zesty, crunchy cucumbers!’

Those were the days, indeed…

Pic for blog-26: red mini by kishan modi on unsplash.com

Cars

A granddaughter sms‐ed me her exciting news: ‘Gran! I've passed my driving test! First time!’ Quirky Gran, who'd passed the test at the second, or was it third attempt, was suitably impressed. I thought back to some fifty years ago…

The thrill of buying my first car, a bright red Mini, half paid for by my Dad, half from the savings from my meagre teacher's salary. The car soon earned the name of The Scarlet Peril, due to my mistaking the accelerator for the brake and bashing into a garage door on the car's unfortunate introduction to a friend…

My flat‐mate, Sandy, was braver than she realised when she'd agreed to join me one memorable day. Our first excursion was along the scenic but dangerous Chapman's Peak Drive — nothing small about us! I hooted every time a double‐decker bus seemed about to overtake us, convinced that the driver couldn't possibly see my miniature car.

The following day we ventured inland to Stellenbosch, admiring the historical landmarks and breath‐taking scenery. It was already getting dark when we decided to return to Cape Town. A traffic cop stopped us to tell me that my lights should be on. Strangely he was not at all friendly when I giggled, saying, ‘I don't know where to switch them on!’ To my surprise he took out a little book and started writing out a ticket. ‘It's not funny; it's very serious’, he stated firmly. At that point, Sandy smiled at him, put her hand on his arm, and said in her most beguiling way, ‘Officer, it's our first trip here and we didn't expect it to get dark so early!’ He was taken in, sighed and showed us where the switch was. Then, to our great relief, he tore up the ticket and off we drove… That's what friends are for!

Another unforgettable incident was being stopped by a traffic cop in Sea Point, who said: ‘Madam, this is a one‐way street.’ (Sea Point is full of them, I discovered.) I indignantly replied, ‘But I am driving one way’… Ja well, I'm sure my granddaughter won't have such problems…

Fifty years on, times and situations have changed. The traffic moves so much faster than we would have dared. A close family member who is an NSD — a Notoriously Slow Driver — described in her own words as ‘cautious’ and ‘careful’ — was once asked by her son, ‘Mom, how many people did you irritate on the road today?’ ‘Well, at least I didn't get a speeding ticket’, she retorted — at which he burst out laughing.

When my friend Abby, a nervous driver and an even more terrified passenger, was first driven by her daughter in heavy London traffic, she survived by lying on the back seat, curled up in foetal position with her hands covering her eyes. She eventually gained sufficient confidence in her daughter's ability and was able to act like a normal passenger. The term ‘driving me mad’ comes to mind…

I was amused and sympathetic when one of my daughters told me of her rising blood pressure when driven by her children. ‘Mine too,’ I silently agreed, on behalf of all mothers and grandmothers.

Pic for blog-27: chickens with jerseys by LMG

Chic Chicks

Two of our young great‐nieces, Beth and Hannah, are animal‐lovers who really care. They live in Emmarentia — a truly leafy suburb of Johannesburg — and they recently decided that their family of dogs, cats, hamsters, birds and fish needed an addition. But what? A calf? A lamb? A kid? These were all discussed, and reluctantly discarded when their Dad reminded them that cute baby animals grow into large time‐consuming adults. That fact and the rigid local municipal regulations made them think again.

So, a few months later three white, fifteen‐month‐old chickens named Rees, Chloë and Charlotte joined the family. (Don’t ask me where those names come from…) They definitely needed their own home in the family compound, so the girls helped their doting older brother build a stylish, sturdy, wooden hen‐house. A night light was thoughtfully added for comfort and warmth. And unsurprisingly, happiness abounded. Even the dogs, who didn't exactly welcome the clucking newcomers into their property, eventually accepted that they were there to stay.

Beth and Hannah knew that walking was healthy exercise, so why not regular chicken ‘walkies’? They spent their pocket‐money on thin pink collars and leads to guide the chicks around the garden. Big mistake! The chickens squawked hysterically as the girls tried to slip the collars round their feathery necks; they managed to wriggle them back off their necks — and then the fun began. As the children chased them, Rees, Chloë and Charlotte ran around desperately, even bumping into each other. The dogs joyfully joined in the fracas, the barking and the cacophony reached chicken‐fever pitch and the totally disastrous ‘chicken run’ exercise was swiftly and thankfully abandoned… Wanted: a chicken‐trainer of the Barbara Woodhouse doggy‐training method.

But a quieter solution was found. Those chickens apparently enjoy human company and they now regularly follow the human family walking in the garden, making ‘soothing, harmonious noises’ (relieved parents' comments). They also provide the household with at least three eggs each day, with any broken ones being thrown into the dogs' dishes, and all seemed blissful in the family compound.

Until winter. The girls looked at their own anoraks, sweaters and coats and worried about their chickens. They dragged their parents to pet shops in various shopping malls, and even to flea‐markets, where they gaped at the name tags and collars — some ‘jewel’‐bedecked (‘Gross’ they muttered) — coats, jackets, even head‐coverings and boots for most pets, but nothing for chickens. They only had their feathers…

News of this sad state of chicken‐deprivation reached the kind ladies of a nearby retirement village, who immediately set to work on a new designer project — knitting coats for chickens! Rees, Chloë and Charlotte are now the owners of unique colourful coats for trendy chicks!

The knitting ladies are thrilled at the successful launch of their chicken range, and are happy to provide winter‐wear for other animals too. Move fast while stocks last!

‘THEY SAY… ’

Do you also get exasperated at the constant use of the words ‘They say…’, pronounced with an air of authority, usually when prefacing controversial statements?

Who are ‘They?’

When Quirky Gran was young, ‘they’ were the press or the radio. And so their news had to be true. ‘They’ did research, they knew, they were there at the very centre of news‐gathering and many of us believed them, unquestioningly. And now, decades later, culminating in the wholesale unpacking of present‐day fake news, Quirky Gran, like Little Audrey, laughs and laughs, although wryly.

Are you guilty of thoughtlessly uttering the dreaded ‘They say’ words? I think back on some conversations through the years… some innocuous, others serious.

After our twins were born we were bombarded with uninvited advice from friends and family (who hadn't had twins, but whose neighbour's‐cousin's‐friend knew the mother of twins, or who had read an article on the subject, or …). ‘They’ said: Don't dress them in identical clothes (it will thwart their individuality — we tried to smile benignly and went on our merry, bungling way, regardless); don't feed them their cereal or ‘veggie‐mush’ from the same bowl and spoon. Hmm! Try separate mealtimes for two starving, screaming infants, sitting next to each other in two small carry‐chairs on the changing‐table! What was I supposed to say to them: ‘Just wait patiently and quietly watch your sister enjoying her food while your tummy rumbles’? Feeding them from a single bowl was difficult enough…

Advice from the well‐meaning inexperienced — but I had to stay sane.

‘They’ had plenty to say when the girls reached school-going age. ‘They’ were adamant: ‘Don't put them in the same class at school.’ We smiled most times, sometimes through gritted teeth and instead took the advice of an experienced headmaster who said: ‘Why look for trouble? Leave them in the same class, and deal with the problem should there be one’. Some years later a Twins Club was started in a national magazine. Luckily for me, our twins were almost teenagers by then; I shudder to think of having to listen to what ‘they’ all said — although they were at least parents of twins. Obviously each set of parents and twins is different and should be dealt with accordingly. Ours appeared to have worked out alright: same school, same class — just as a friend who sent hers to different schools had similar success. Different strokes for different folks, despite what ‘they’ said.

The critical Covid pandemic has given rise to really serious discussions: to mask or not to mask; to mingle or not; and, most urgently, to vaccinate or not? We’ve been battered by all forms of media, both for and against, backed by local and international professional and other opinions. The time is overdue for us to abandon the ‘theys’ and make our own decision: Yay or Nay. Our lives matter.

Is the Quirky Gran generation more dependent on ‘them’ than the younger generation? Maybe. Some of us Oldies are still battling with modern technology and terminology, never mind understanding and absorbing the vast, terrifying flood of information. The younger ones, permanently attached to their cell‐phones and whatever invention is ‘boiling hot off the press’, seem to have been born with the necessary knowledge and know‐how. We had Dr Spock, Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopaedia and the school library to inform us; they have Dr Google. Their daily news seems to be updated non-stop from the planets. We Oldies don't stand a chance.

But do not despair. The big debate concerns who ‘they’ are. Beware of following ‘them’ blindly down a slippery garden path which may lead to even further confusion.

Pic for blog-29: Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes

Starry, Starry Night

I recently watched in awe as the giant James Webb Space Telescope successfully raced heavenwards. All a bit too much for Quirky Gran. I decided to leave the discovery of the origins of the universe to the astro‐scientists and my grandchildren. I shall descend to my own level of astronomy with:

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky…

Sadly, my feelings of wonderment at the magical, night sky were shattered long ago by my older cousin, Colin, who, with the confidence of a ten‐year‐old, remarked that shooting stars fell to earth and one could easily land on my house! It was many years before I could listen to certain popular songs, particularly ‘Catch a Falling Star’, without some worry.

When Quirky Gran was a young child, books of English nursery rhymes were popular birthday presents, much appreciated by parents and their young children, particularly at bedtime. Mother Goose was a favourite compilation. Mother Who? Despite speculation as to her origin, the name became synonymous with nursery rhymes. Apparently there was a Mrs Goose who made up rhymes for her children. These were compiled and printed by her nephew in about 1700. Mother Goose's Nursery Rhymes were here to stay.

Simple tunes, rhythms and actions added to the enjoyment of the rhymes and bedtime became fun for children and their parents in many countries. The nursery rhyme star twinkled near and far. The tune is virtually the same as that of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ and the ABC song! Even Mozart knew it as the French folksong, ‘Ah, vous dirai‐je Maman’, and wrote a set of piano variations based on the melody. Several other famous composers used the tune in larger works too.

Although Quirky Gran often forgets what day it is or what she did yesterday, with a little prodding she still remembers strains of the nursery rhymes of her youth. What could Jack Sprat not eat? Who lost her sheep? Where did Mary's Little Lamb go, unlawfully? (See next week's blog for answers!)

But alas, all was not as it seemed in Infant Paradise. The idyllic picture of

Mary Mary Quite Contrary
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row

was originally far from rosy.

The ‘garden’ has been interpreted as England, and the ‘silver bells and cockle shells’ as instruments of torture. The ‘pretty maids all in a row’ were not the smiling daisies as happily depicted in my book. Oh no! Not daisies but ladies were among the many that were beheaded by Queen Mary I, according to legend.

Not your average children's song. Where were the nursery rhyme censors?

So will it be ‘No more Mother Goose’ for 2022 children or parents? The children will zoom off to dreamland listening to their choice of television stories or songs on their cell‐phones, i‐pads or whatever has just been invented. Space travel won't be a mystery to them… they'll know about, understand and no doubt experience it and ‘much, much more…’. Or maybe not…?

Quirky Gran Request: Please share your nursery rhyme memories with us!

Pic for blog-30: Granny baking cookies (pinterest.com)

Cookery Traditions

In these days when change seems to occur almost faster than the speed of light, tradition may be a comforting link with the old, more sedately‐paced days. But reminiscing about family food traditions may cause more than a song and dance and the convivial atmosphere can instantly shatter to downright stormy!

Differing recipes, with differing ingredients, amounts and methods may even result in family rifts. Some people go the Frank Sinatra route and are adamant that certain delicacies can only be successfully made one way — their way!

I remember two of my mother's friends arguing over the correct order of adding the ingredients of a melktert. Mrs D literally finished off the discussion with a peremptory: ‘You don't come from Oudtshoorn, so how could you know how to make a genuine melktert!’ Mrs G was at a loss for words and my mother tactfully and speedily changed the topic.

Despite having disposed of many of my recipe books when we moved house, I still have a wealth of reading matter for a relaxing, nostalgic stroll down memory baking lane. Even now, as I browse through the books, I mark possible recipes to be tried when I'm feeling in a culinary‐adventurous mood. Ingredients are bought, the utensils brought out of hiding… then my mood changes and the new recipe is rejected. Not feeling that adventurous after all! I go for the tried and trusted recipe. Boring, but safe!

Our grandmothers, if they wrote down recipes at all, used vague measurements like a pinch, a handful or even a ‘small cup’ — espresso or coffee? (in those days coffee cups were delicate, smaller than teacups, unlike today's ever-so-practical saucerless mugs). And how difficult to decide on the original size of ‘a slab of chocolate’. Large, medium or minute? When it comes to chocolate, I'd rather err on the most generous side! Talking of chocolate, I still hanker after the old penny Nestlé's chocs! I wonder what they'd cost today?

And now for a really serious culinary dilemma, the ‘English tea’ which comprises tea and cream scones. The question is rather like the famous ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ The vital question is: ‘Which is spread first, the cream or the jam?’ And the answer is … dramatic drumroll … both are correct, depending on your English tradition. In Devon, clotted cream is spread onto the halved scone first, then strawberry jam is added. In next door Cornwall it's the other way round, jam first with cream ‘on top’. Here in South Africa, make your own choice!

Quirky Gran is delighted that she and Queen Elizabeth have similar taste! Both prefer the jam then cream method. Should you be invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace, you'll know what to expect! And of course, the strawberry jam will come from the family gardens, not Woolies or even the local home‐industry shop.

There's also the problem of pronunciation. Is it scone as in ‘gone’ or scone as in ‘own’? Or even ‘scoon’… It's rather like the song ‘You like tomAYto and I like tomAHto …’.

Quirky Gran quotes the television programme: You be the judge!

Tradition can be a tiresome thing.

Thank You

Lost! Where have all the thank you's gone? Sadly they seem to have become obsolete, like so much else these days. I remember when birthday parties were such special days in my calendar. When we'd exhausted the last game of ‘K‐I‐N‐G Spells King’ or ‘I Wrote A Letter To My Love’, demolished the birthday cake and coloured jellies set in orange skin quarters (I used to wonder why the jelly didn't fall out when they were made) and the obligatory Marie biscuits covered with garish icing and colourful hundreds‐and‐thousands, we'd line up to say ‘Thank you for having me’ to the birthday child's mother.

‘Did you say “Thank you”?’, your Mother would demand, as she fetched you after playing at a friend's house. And we did that too, checking on our own children. I think they asked their children too. But it seems that not everyone did.

We grew up and the need for thank you's became rarer. Engagements and weddings were the next happy social events. But sometimes our gifts would only be acknowledged much later when we'd bump into the couple unexpectedly…

The Quirky Gran generation are also not guiltless. How often do we too forget to say thank you until it's too late? We no longer send ‘Thank you’ letters — or very seldom — but haven't you meant to send a thank you email (or even a WhatsApp) and forgotten…?

Do you remember the thank you messages we carefully wrote by hand on special, pretty, perfumed paper? That's not 21^st century. These days you may receive a telegram‐like email (What's a telegram, Gran?) or even just a WhatsApp acknowledgement. Not yet a ‘Tick the appropriate box’ app, but soon we might have a convenient form to fit all possibilities. Watch your InBox!

What about the teachers who made a difference in our lives, whose care and interest continued well after our schooldays? Were we really too busy to thank them when they would have appreciated being remembered? And now we complain of having too much time on our hands…

A wonderful ninety‐year‐old friend taught me the importance of instantly‐shown gratitude. Granny Sally, as she was known to everyone she came in contact with, would get up at 5 a.m. to bake her famous biscuits, perhaps for a shop assistant who'd gone the extra mile for her. No waiting until Christmas to say thank you. The petrol attendant who greeted her cheerfully whenever she filled up her jalopy also enjoyed her baked treats. And she always had time to ask after their sick child or elderly relative. She really cared. She even wrote (those were the days) to shop‐owners to commend an assistant who'd treated her kindly. ‘Do it now,’ she'd say, ‘you never know what tomorrow might bring…’

As the old song says: Little things mean a lot.

Tea with Quirky Gran

I like a nice cup of tea in the morning
For to start the day, you see!
And at half past eleven
Well, my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of tea!

This song, made famous by Gracie Fields says it all! In Pietermaritzburg, ‘the last outpost of the British Empire’, tea was the popular beverage of choice. Tea, on the hour, almost every hour, was made at our home at 15 Chamberlain Rd! Especially in the midst of midsummer… (Tea comes from some of the hottest countries; those people should know…) ‘Better than going to the doctor,’ nodded our neighbour, Aunty E. She was considered an authority on anything British, as she had actually been to Buckingham Palace when her son received a distinguished award!

‘Let me make you a cuppa tea, luv,’ must be one of the most popular phrases in the English vocabulary, as followers of EastEnders, Mrs Brown soapies and British family films will confirm! Tea seems to have the same attributes as the traditional Jewish chicken soup!

Now that Covid has forced us to spend an inordinate amount of time at home, I make many trips to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. As I take a teabag from the glass bottle that serves as a tea caddy (What's that, Gran?) I hear Aunty E mutter: ‘Teabags! Whatever for! Nothing like tea leaves!’ She'd carefully measure tea leaves (Tea leaves? What are those, Gran?) into the teapot — ‘one teaspoon per person, and one for the pot’ — which she covered with a knitted tea cosy, often with a bobble on top, to keep the pot warm. The tea was left to draw (another puzzlement), then was eventually poured through a tea strainer, with tiny holes to keep the leaves out of the cups. (No more questions, dear.) Modernity in the form of teabags was a long time in coming to Aunty E's home.

But that's not all!

Should the milk or the tea be poured first? This dilemma provided heated discussions among the ladies of Maritzburg and elsewhere where tea mattered. Quirky Gran, who dislikes milky tea, prefers the tea‐first method, so she can regulate the strength of the tea. But that's not all. Hot or cold milk? Cold or not at all, she groans, thinking of the horrible skin that can occur like a wrinkled table cloth, if milk is left to stand for too long.

‘High tea’, which included a hot meal in addition to tea and delicious cakes, was a new experience for Quirky Gran. Our Scottish hosts explained that when the workers came home from a heavy day's work at the factories they needed more sustenance than mere tea and cake at 5 pm.

In South Africa some posh hotels and restaurants offer guests their version of ‘high tea’: a selection of miniscule one‐biters on tiered platters — at an enormous cost. Delicate hand‐painted china, linen table cloths with matching table napkins, and a pianist… These all recall memories of days gone by, of Noël Coward and tea at the Ritz…

Quirky Gran wonders how many Royal cups of tea are being poured at Buckingham Palace in these days of Royal familial stress. Tea and sympathy… Indeed, don't we all need that?

Going to Town

In Quirky Gran's youth, Saturday morning was a special day. Mom and I would go to town, the hub of that metropolis, Pietermaritzburg. We'd catch the 9.50 a.m. bus from Scottsville — a change from the weekday ‘get‐everyone‐to‐work‐or‐school’ 7.45 one — get off at the terminus and walk to the library. We'd separate at the Children/Adults entrances and inside I'd choose three books for the week's reading: at first all of them in English, but later two English and one Afrikaans. Why were Afrikaans school stories so much more exciting than the English ones?

As a young child I'd walk to the tiny bookshop which sold Enid Blyton's little Sunny Stories magazine, to buy my weekly copy. Could it have cost a whole sixpence? I still have a book with her signature, that I won in a Sunny Stories competition! (Who mentioned the word ‘hoarder’?) I must confess to still having another early treasure, Little Grey Rabbit's Friends by Alison Uttley, signed by the headmistress and given to every child in Class One (now Grade 3). Years later I was given an autograph book that my school friends filled with rhymes, drawings and messages — signed in trying‐to‐look‐adult signatures that'd we'd practise until we were satisfied. I eventually discarded that piece of memorabilia!

At 11 o'clock Mom and I would meet at Christie's, the local smart ‘tea-room’ where we'd order a pot of tea, a chocolate milkshake and egg and tomato sandwiches for two! An order that is still a favourite when I meet my own children and grandchildren today — though, sadly, never in Maritzburg. Times and places may change but not some necessities.

As a teenager — although that term was not yet in general use — I would meet with a group of friends at the OK Bazaars milk bar, where we'd perch on barstools, and order coke floats (ice cream in a glass of Coca Cola) or ice cream and chocolate sauce, with Horlicks powder sprinkled on top! (Try it, it's the best!) The main point of this excursion was to meet up ‘accidentally’ with Maritzburg College boys — so dashing in their blazers and bashers — hopefully with similar thoughts!

Sometimes we'd spend part of our school holidays in the Western Cape. For the girl from Sleepy Hollow, going to town in Cape Town was like visiting fairyland! This really epitomised the phrase ‘going to town’. Getting dressed up meant taking a hat and a bag. And please note the white socks with black patent leather shoes! And Mom wore gloves and took her jersey, just in case!

At Christmas time, Stuttafords in Adderley Street was ‘the’ shop for browsing, and I'd spend part of the morning riding up and down the escalators (nothing like that in Maritzburg), which were decorated from one floor to the next with amazing Walt Disney and Christmas themes. Tea time there was a real treat: the egg sandwiches were mixed with mayonnaise! We'd watch the visitors from the Union Castle ship, and I'd dream of their different way of life, and the exciting places they'd visited. Perhaps this is what sparked my urge to travel…

Later, as a student in Cape Town, after doing the compulsory monthly Saturday street collection (‘Street what, Gran?’) for charity by first year residence students, some of us would congregate at the Waldorf in St George's Street, a haven from the cold, the southeaster, and incessant winter rain, to be entertained by Cy Sacks over coffee and toasted cheese. Towards the end of the month we'd have to share our sandwiches, to the disapproval of the waiter, especially when the melting, squidgy cheese proved difficult to cut!

Tea time with friends became a habit I've never broken, though in these not‐so‐social Covid days I'm still longing to meet some of them again for tea or coffee, a real chat, and a ‘few of our favourite things’.

Pic for blog-34: Pecks Anchovette discontinued

Old Favourites Matter

Beware! There's not much more fearsome than the Quirky Gran generation scorned.

Fed up and furious, that's how we feel.

Where has all the fish paste gone? The cries of the Quirky Gran generation fill the air, the media, the news bulletins, radio telephone‐in programmes and cell phones. Where's the transparency that we hear so much about? Did anyone ask your opinion? They certainly didn't reach me, and because of adhering to Covid protocols, I'm at home most of the day. Did they ask anyone you know?

Since my husband David was a child he has enjoyed anchovy paste on toast with his breakfast, and this routine continued throughout our marriage, until yesterday… We even took — must I now say ‘used to take’? — a jar with us when we went on holidays, just in case. Now the tradition has been broken without a by‐your‐leave or even a warning.

Don't mention the recipe for a home‐made version that's doing the rounds. Imagine the mess and ‘perfume à la sardine’ that would permeate our apartment building… We demand the real thing: fish paste from Saldanha Bay, in that old, familiar, bobbly bottle.

I feel a temper tantrum coming up. This can lead to a Quirky Gran Protest. I know there are problems with fish being swallowed by the environment‐killers or being caught by fishermen from foreign lands, but why are we losing only the sardines and anchovies that make up our fish paste?

Is it because we don't matter?

And that's not all. There's talk of production of our favourite tomato sauce being limited! How dare they? Fish and chips without that essential condiment? No way! And it's not only our generation that crave it. The younger members of the family stretch for the tomato sauce at the mere sight of their staple diet of chips. Let's canvas them. It's not all about us. Not to mention that it's the main way that teenage boys get their vitamins!

And the final savoury crunch: Marmite! Marmite melting into hot, buttered toast… mmmm… nothing like it. Even glamorous Nigella has a recipe for Spaghetti Marmite, which I've been meaning to try. I wonder if I can scrape up enough Marmite from my remaining jar to make the recipe? We are being deprived of our heritage; the few things left to bring back our happy youth, to warm our hearts or — as Snoopy might say — to give us a warm, fuzzy, contented feeling…

By the way, did you know that marmite is the French word for a cooking pot? And our Marmite was originally sold in a small earthenware jar — and it still looks like a cooking pot! Then there's the phrase ‘a Marmite person’: you either love them or hate them — just like Marmite.

And now: a sweet deprivation. How low can they go? Say farewell to gooey Chocolate Logs. Can you believe it? Although apparently several of our forever favourite chocolates have been discontinued, we must take comfort: There are delicious new ones in the pipeline… When will ‘they’ learn that we prefer the old, reliable goodies and are unlikely to spend our carefully saved cash on something new that we might not like. We are loyal, not fickle.

So, friends, stock up on your old favourites while you can.

It's been a really difficult Covid two years for Quirky Gran and friends. We've stayed at home, vaccinated, boostered; we've missed neighbours, family get‐togethers — both happy and sad — and celebrations. And these are our rewards?

Message to those Spoilers: When you reach your twilight years (what a terrible phrase) you might appreciate the hurt you've caused; you'll be sorry, but your tears will be too late… To quote a wise, late colleague: Come Christmas, you'll be crying in your cradle…

Pic for blog-35: Cup of Italian espresso

I Like Coffee, You Like Tea!

When I invited my friend B for coffee at my home I wasn't prepared for her question: what kind of coffee do you use? ‘Ricoffy,’ I replied, eagerly but naively. ‘In that case,’ replied my ever‐so‐direct friend, ‘I'll have tea.’ Now, thanks to her, my progress in Italian conversation and the intricacies of coffee‐making allows me to offer and enjoy real filter coffee! Not exactly à la George Clooney and his Nespresso ads, but acceptable to B!

One of Quirky Gran's favourite Italian coffee stories took place in Milan, when we were en route to that dream‐like Lake Como (where, incidentally, the Clooneys have a home). I had proudly organised, without a travel agent, a visit for David and me to the lake, and was concerned that my best Italian efforts might not have had the desired result. We successfully found the Inter‐city Bus terminus at the airport and checked that we were in plenty of time for the Lake Como bus. David settled himself with our luggage at the nearby coffee patio and I went off to place the order, in my most practised Italian: ‘Un cappuccino e un caffè, per favore.’ When I brought the order to the table David asked why there was one cappuccino and one espresso instead of our usual two cappuccinos.

I replied that in my Italian phrase book tourists ordered ‘un cappuccino e un caffè’. I simply had to bring those words to life! And since then I have became hooked on the small but strong espresso! When in Milano do as the Milanese do! When in Durban also!

We learnt that eating and drinking while seated at a table costs more than if we were standing. Italians enjoy their breakfast of coffee and a pastry standing at tables or perched on high stools before rushing off to work. Back in Durban, David and I, perhaps boringly, prefer eating breakfast together seated at the dining‐room table.

Did you know that the name ‘cappuccino’ comes from the brown robe and white hood that the Capuchin monks wear?

In this rushed age, Stand‐by, Walk‐by and Drive‐by coffee shops have become popular. I recently saw a ‘drive by’ coffee shop at a suburban garage. Ingenious! Fill up your car and your tummy! (Of course Seattle got there decades ago…)

There's a charming coffee tradition called In sospeso that started in Naples and is now available in several other countries. Consumers order a caffè and pay for two cups: one for themselves and one for someone who can't afford to buy one. Double pleasure — Ubuntu indeed.

Coffee made an impression from the earliest days. Roasting those seeds (we call them ‘beans’ now of course) is said to have been discovered in Ethiopia in the ninth century. The idea was introduced into Turkey around 1540, and from the mid‐seventeenth century ‘coffee culture’ spread to Europe. Coffee shops became popular among men, who passed the day together, reading the newspapers and discussing politics, business and more. Strictly Men Only! Later, oh horror, women did the same at their own coffee shops, instead of being in their rightful place, the kitchen! The men argued weakly that coffee was bad for their ladies' health!

Even serious‐minded Bach wrote a light‐hearted Coffee Cantata in which one of the characters, a father, tried to stop his daughter from drinking coffee, warning her that it would impede her chances of marriage. This backfired as the young lady insisted on adding a clause to her marriage certificate which allowed her several cups of the dangerous beverage a day!

Instead of having ‘cream in your coffee’ as sung by Nat King Cole (‘Who's that, Gran?’), rather ‘drown’ a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cup of hot espresso! Caffè Affogato! A great dessert! (Affogato means ‘drowned’!)

A Tale of Two Dogs

It seems that few people can resist the appealing faces and soulful expressions of the dogs that advertisers force on consumers in an attempt to entice them to buy goods ranging from paint to toilet‐paper.

Having had three children, born within two years, we were sure that our family was complete. Until our son, D, aged five, decided that we needed a puppy in order to be a really happy family. We were surprised, as the children were so terrified of the two dogs belonging to some friends of ours that the innocent animals were banished, midst much barking, from inside their house whenever we visited. (Admittedly they were rather large dogs.) I reminded D about their fears. He replied that those were fully grown dogs — they weren't puppies. On assuring him that puppies grew up and even the dreaded dogs had once been tiny and cute, he sagely replied, ‘Oh no, my puppy won't grow big! I won't feed him!’

The request was fortunately abandoned until D was twelve, when he asked for a dog for a Barmitzvah present. With our approval he chose a roly‐poly golden cocker spaniel, suitably called Chubby because of his love of food! Needless to say, Chubbs, who lost the ‘y’ with adulthood, was the children's choice to play and walk with, and mine to care for! The years passed, and D left home for UCT, waving us all a cheery farewell, and promising to become a holiday dog‐carer.

Chubbs, in some ways enjoyed being the ‘only child’, his ears flapping from the open car window when he came with me on short drives, and greeting me excitedly, balancing on his hind legs at the garden gate whenever I came home from teaching or shopping. Apparently dogs have little idea of time, so when D came home for the holidays he was greeted with the same joyous enthusiasm as I was when I returned from the tearoom round the corner!

Now let me introduce a Dog in a Million; a very different tale. Humphrey, parents unknown, was ‘a little bit of this, a little bit of that’. When Durban pharmacist AIwyn Immerman saw this maltreated, terrified, cringing canine apparition lying listlessly in a SPCA kennel, his heart went out to him — he had to help. Through love, care and patience, he gained the dog's trust and Humphrey gradually grew into the popular, loveable character who has brightened the lives of innumerable friends and fans, many of whom pop into the pharmacy where Alwyn works, often just to say ‘hi’.

‘Humphrey? Why was he called Humphrey, Gran?’ ‘Well, Alwyn's son Mark has a dog called Bogart, and Humphrey seemed just right! I'll explain all that later!’ ‘You always say that, Gran, but you never remember to.’ Small sigh.

But that's not all. So many people knew and appreciated Humphrey's gentle and unconditional love that he was soon invited to visit schools, and homes for underprivileged children — and even retirement complexes. All, young and old, eagerly await his visits. ‘His mere presence makes you feel better,’ commented a lonely, frail granny. People soon started putting donations, from a few cents to huge amounts, into the container that Alwyn thoughtfully provided in his pharmacy for the care of animals at the SPCA. Soon there were even people who would pay for the pleasure of walking with Humphrey along the Umhlanga Promenade, his favourite beat!

Humphrey has earned one million rand for the SPCA, and has been appointed Umhlanga Tourist Ambassador. Recently his statue, brilliantly created by sculptor Sarah Richards, was unveiled at the Promenade.

Remember the song ‘Love Changes Everything’? Love certainly changed everything for Humphrey, for Alwyn and friends, and for the recipients at the SPCA.

Pic for blog-37: Tea-room at Durban Botanical Gardens

Where have all the tea rooms gone?

Quirky Gran generally looks on the sunny side of life, seeing a half‐full glass rather than a half‐empty one. However, things are a‐changing. The glass is now empty.

I've just spent the last hour talking or not‐talking on the Help‐or‐Not‐Help Line of a telecommunications company. I'm sure that you've all had this distressing experience: you listen to (or try to ignore) the irritating mechanical tune that is meant to soothe (it does not) while you wait for one of their busy agents to help you. Mine is probably having a chat to a friend, a tea break (lucky soul) or, in these Covid days where many call‐centre agents work from home, changing the baby's nappy. I sympathise with the latter, but helping my peace of mind by solving my problem, it's not! It's communication I'm after… I try again and am not sure which of the many quickly reeled off options I should press to be helped. I give up and return to ‘Speak to an agent’. Silly Quirky Gran. More minutes pass by until… success! I hear a human voice; I burble my problem and am gleefully told I have called the wrong department and should try again...

At this stage I'm hyperventilating, gulp a glug of Rescue Remedy, and desperately think of a quiet place to try to calm the agitated blood‐pressure. A change of scenery, a cuppa and ‘a little something’ might do the trick! The popular tea‐gardens at Durban's famous, de‐stressing Botanic Gardens or Mitchell Park — essential havens of solace, especially to the Quirky Gran generation. Botanic Gardens where the sounds are the natural bird calls, and occasional monkey shrieks… The ducks still swim in the pond among the exotic water lilies, the breath‐taking orchids continue to thrive, and good coffee (that's all) is available from a small coffee‐stand.

The Botanic Gardens Tea Kiosk was started in 1963 to provide funds for pre‐medication food for TB patients who were unable to provide their own. Sadly, their lease to the eThekwini Municipality was recently terminated.

And so, farewell to the famous tea garden. And to the Botanic Garden Special — crumpets with syrup and cream — if you wanted to spoil yourself and your waistline, before the cunning monkeys swooped on the table and removed your precious meal. (A friend told me that at the Waterfront in Cape Town it's the seagulls who swipe our treats!) Various Durban community societies provided and served the meals on their particular day each month, and Quirky Gran would visit there when her friends were on duty.

Mitchell Park, with its glorious splashes of colour that change with the seasons, thanks to the Parks and Gardens magic‐makers. While the children visit the animals and birds (how do flamingos support their bodies on such spindly legs?) while great‐grandparents reminisce about Nellie the elephant, from India, who carried many of their generation for rides, at threepence a go, for umpteen years. After twenty‐one years in Durban, Nellie was shipped off to a zoo in Sydney, where she tragically soon died, after a fall. (Why was she sent there, Gran? That's another story, dear.)

The gardens remain, but gone are the all‐day menus and Sunday lunch specials, so popular with families. The younger ones, watched by some anxious parents, still whoop with delight on the swings and see‐saws, but the sound of music from the pianist who played requests from ‘the old days’ for us has been silenced.

Lonely oldies would escape from their stifling bedsitters and tiny ‘granny flats’ to the tearoom in the vast gardens in the hope of finding a friendly soul to pass the time with, perhaps over tea and the occasional scone. There's not much fun in eating your home‐made sandwiches with friends on a park bench or sitting on the lawn sharing your blanket with ants and passing ‘goggahs’. It's sad when your pleasures are removed and you dwindle into history.

Here's an idea for a resourceful entrepreneur. Tearooms matter. Give them back to us and we'll support you. Otherwise there may be a serious Granny Protest…

Pic for blog-38: Union Castle liner (lastoceanliners.com)

Cruising down the River

One of my earliest popular song memories is the lilting ‘Cruising Down the River, on a Sunday afternoon’. The Umsunduzi river which meanders its way through Maritzburg to Durban's Umgeni river‐mouth didn't stir my lazy soul to any thought of action. Let the energetic enthusiasts paddle down the river to Durban in the Duzi Marathon. I'd rather cruise along with the music on our record‐player! (What's that, Gran?)

Sunday afternoons at 15 Chamberlain Road were lazy times. Dad played bowls in the morning, then after a hearty Sunday lunch, we'd each take our favourite section of the Sunday papers to read on the stoep. Dad started off with the main news sections, Mom the lighter, more social parts and I took the comics. After a while Dad's snoring informed us that he was enjoying his Sunday ‘shloff’. The city wasn't called Sleepy Hollow for nothing!

There's very little intended humour in today's newspapers. No more comic sections, maybe just an arbitary comic strip or two, definitely not my favourites. Life is just not funny these days. Though I think we need cheering up more than ever. Remember Little King, Bringing Up Father, The Gambols, Popeye, The Heart of Juliet Jones? Something for everyone.

As a young reader, I was strangely drawn to tales of those who enjoyed sailing, particularly ‘The Wind in the Willows’, with Ratty who loved ‘messing about with boats’; Arthur Ransome’s ‘Swallows and Amazons’ adventure series and much later, the true life stories of ‘those in peril on the sea.’ The tragic loss of the Titanic haunted me long before the romanticised version — Leonard DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, with vocals by Celine Dion — hit the screen. I even persuaded a daughter to write a (very short) ‘book’ on the topic for a school project.

A voyage as a teenager with Mom from Durban to Cape Town on a Union Castle liner had me hooked on the real thing, and cruising was added to my bucket list. While de‐cluttering yet again, I discovered pamphlets of several European river cruises, the Rhine, the Danube and even the Italian Po… enticing, but perhaps not at this moment.

However, not all was plain sailing. Decades later I enthusiastically organised a family cruise with our children, then teenagers, to Mauritius on the Achille Lauro. My ravings about the joys of sea travel subsided when the ship listed to starboard (the right side!) at such a steep angle that we held our breath and prayed for her to return to upright, which she did before veering precariously to the port side and back. This continued throughout the night. So we were not surprised to read, some months later, that she had foundered off the Somali coast. (Why are ships female, Gran?)

More recently the Italian Concordia had an unscheduled meeting with rocks off the Tuscan coast, while the captain was entertaining a lady‐friend instead of commanding his ship… Three passengers died and many more, including staff, were injured.

Nevertheless, the romantic aura of sailing lingers on in our memories, in books, films and travel adverts. From our lounge windows I watch a cruise ship gliding gracefully from Durban harbour out to sea. I picture excited passengers waving goodbye, some throwing colourful streamers to their friends on shore, while the orchestra plays ‘I Am Sailing’, and wish that I were doing just that…

Pic for blog-39: pavlova (inapaarman.co.za)

It's All in the Name

These days losing things and then finding them in unexpected places is commonplace among Quirky Gran and her friends, but has anyone else lost a slice of toast? After searching all over the kitchen I eventually found the toast behind the toaster, not on top! The long‐past‐its‐sell‐by‐date toaster had flung it as far as possible in a desperate final farewell!

While admiring the sparkling replacement toaster, waiting for the perfect slice to appear in its normal place, my mind wandered, as it tends to do these days… brown toast, white toast, rye toast, ciabatta toast, thick toast, thin toast, Melba toast…

In the 1900s a young Australian singer, Helen Porter Mitchell, changed her name to Nellie Melba, on the advice of her singing teacher. It sounded more impressively prima donna‐ish and also recognised her home‐town, Melbourne. The famous Savoy Restaurant chef, Escoffier, a great admirer of the now world‐renowned singer, Dame Nellie Melba, created the thin, elegant ‘Melba toast’ especially for her. She loved food but needed to watch her diet! And for her less figure‐caring moments he invented Peach Melba, a concoction of fresh peaches, raspberry sauce and cream! (Why, gran?)

Later, Melba kept saying she was retiring, and gave numerous ‘farewell concerts’, and the term, "doing a Melba" refers to someone who says goodbye many times.

That set Quirky Gran thinking about other artists and delicacies… the pavlova, an airy delight of meringue, cream and fruit, still popular today, was named in honour of the Russian prima ballerina, Anna Pavlova, after her breath‐taking performances in Australia and New Zealand in the late 1920s. Both countries take credit for creating the dessert.

A meatier dish, Tournedos Rossini, (What's meat got to do with a tornado, Gran?) was named after the composer Rossini who loved food, saying , ‘I know of no more admirable occupation than eating…’. Quirky Gran approves! Chopped liver — or ‘pate de foie gras’ was placed on top of the fried or grilled steak (the tornedo). Apparently Rossini loved it, but I prefer traditional chopped liver not adorning anything else.

A popular dessert (or ‘pudding’, as our cousin Harry called the final course) from the 1970s is Baked Alaska, created to commemorate the fact that America acquired Alaska from the Russian Empire for the sum of around 7 million dollars in 1867… Food for thought, perhaps, in the present strained Russian—American relations.

Then there's Eton mess! What an unappealing name. (No relation to the Biblical ‘mess of potage’ — which was probably a pot of lentil stew.) After a few spoonsful of the famous English school variety, the globs of jelly with fruit and cream surely resemble a real moosh or mess. Not posh at all!

And what about Monkeygland Steak? The mere thought of it horrified me when I first read it on a menu in the 1960s.I was relieved that the piquant sauce was merely a mixture of chutney, tomatoes and Worcester Sauce. No monkey‐business there!

Sadly, no one has (yet!) named a delicacy after Quirky Gran, though many years ago cousin Colin, a race‐horse breeder, named a filly Cousin Cecile, commenting wryly that if she ate as much and moved as slowly as I did, she would never make the winner's box! (He was right and I hesitate to mention that they put her out to stud…)

But, as a mother of toddlers, all of whom refused to try any unfamiliar meat dish, I created a simple solution. It's all in the name! Daddy's Meat! No longer was anything new automatically pushed aside! Daddy's Meat was now enthusiastically greeted and pronounced good! And, like Oliver Twist, they even asked for more! Escoffier could not have been more proud!

Pic for blog-40: flowers (durban florist, hillcrest)

A Colourful World

Are you also affected by colour? Red is ‘my’ colour. In Quirky Gran's life, red means happy, grey is exactly that, regardless of its many shades and yellow is sunny and cheerful. The sight of my first car, the red mini, always brought a smile to my face, regardless of what was on the day's schedule. One of my pupils asked me if I'd chosen the car to match my wardrobe or vice versa. (What was the answer, Gran?)

When the headmistress of my school wore her deep purple suit we expected a bad mood and we kept out of her way… perhaps purple was her angry colour! My friend, Isa, equates happiness with the colour yellow. She counts the number of yellow cars that she sees each day. It's catchy and I've started looking out for them too!

What would we do without flowers to add colour to our lives? Yellow flowers add sunshine to the home. Yesterday I bought a pot of miniature daffodils to remind me that spring can't really be that far away. (These spring flowers were strangely out of season, but nothing is what it used to be.) Sadly, with my poor gardening track record these ‘happiness‐givers’ may not last into the next season…

Pink and pastel blooms give a sense of calm and peace; if you're ‘in the pink’ you're feeling healthy and some of us view life through rose‐coloured spectacles… Green is a symbol of youth and freshness… (Remind me to get more green…) ‘Green fingers are ever‐so‐useful if you're a gardener,’ moans B, who reckons she must have black fingers as most plants wilt in her ‘care’. The sight of blooms flourishing in someone else's garden makes her feel green with envy.

In contrast, vibrant reds, oranges and purples reflect the heat and energy of the blazing African sun. Out of my window I admire the bright orange bird‐like strelitzias posing like dancers frozen in time. And in summer the Durban pavements are carpeted with purple and shocking pink tibouchinas, and coral tree blossoms interspersed with yellow cassia add to the dramatic picture.

Blue is depicted in art as heavenly and tranquil. In the ‘English country garden’ bluebells and forget‐me‐nots, while in South Africa the upright blue statice and poker‐like agapanthus contrast with the pale plumbago. (Not to be confused with lumbago, as my great‐aunt used to joke.)

Talking of blue… across the ocean in America, The Blues, a new musical genre was born in the 1860s when the slaves, brutally wrenched from Africa, expressed in songs such as ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen’, their deep depression and yearning for their homeland. Later, jazz evolved as ‘St Louis Blues’, ‘Basin Street Blues’, and Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue reflected their mood to the world. ‘Feeling blue’ became part of popular vocabulary, and songs such as ‘Singing the Blues’, ‘Blue Moon’ and ‘Red Roses for a Blue Lady’ were part of our 1950s generation, still remembered into the 21st century.

And who can forget the evergreen ‘We'll Gather Lilacs in the Spring Again’, sung by Anne Ziegler and Webster Booth? (Did you know that they were husband and wife?) My aunt had a lilac tree in her garden in Ceres, and I can still remember the sweet perfume of the beautiful blooms. Even W.S. Gilbert (of Gilbert & Sullivan) wrote about ‘The flowers that bloom in the spring tra la!’.

But spare a thought for those who are colour blind. How sad to miss out on this colourful world, to experience the world as a colouring‐in book, never to be coloured in. On a lighter note, I asked an uncle who was colour blind how he managed to drive successfully in traffic. He replied that he just watched the position of the shining traffic light. Fortunately there weren't many traffic lights in his small country village!

Grannies Also Have Rights

Conspiracy To Cull The Aged Through Starvation?

Bananas In My Soup

A Taste of Honey

What's So Special?

Toothpaste

There’s A Place Somewhere...

Never Say Never

Sharing is Caring? A pre‐Covid story

Crossing the Barrier

Because It's Good for You!

A Few of my Favourite Things

The Bioscope: Kom Saam Vanaand

Wine, Women and Song

Shopping

Travels with Quirky Gran

Superstitions

Ag Pleez Daddy

Greetings

Only One Name

A Little Knowledge Can Be a Dangerous Thing

Just Books

I've Become My Mother

Missing the Bus in Venice

Over to you!

Cars

Chic Chicks

‘THEY SAY… ’

Starry, Starry Night

Cookery Traditions

Thank You

Tea with Quirky Gran

Going to Town

Old Favourites Matter

I Like Coffee, You Like Tea!

A Tale of Two Dogs

Where have all the tea rooms gone?

Cruising down the River

It's All in the Name

A Colourful World

Grannies Also Have Rights

Conspiracy To Cull The Aged Through Starvation?

Bananas In My Soup

A Taste of Honey

What's So Special?

Toothpaste

There's A Place Somewhere...

Never Say Never

Sharing is Caring? A pre‐Covid story

Crossing the Barrier

Because It's Good for You!

A Few of my Favourite Things

The Bioscope: Kom Saam Vanaand

Wine, Women & Song

Shopping

Travels with Quirky Gran

Superstitions

Ag Pleez Daddy

Greetings

Only One Name

A Little Knowledge Can Be a Dangerous Thing

Just books

I've Become My Mother

Missing the Bus in Venice

Over to you!

Cars

Chic Chicks

‘THEY SAY… ’

Starry, Starry Night

Cookery Traditions

Thank You

Tea with Quirky Gran

Going to Town

Old Favourites Matter

I Like Coffee, You Like Tea!

A Tale of Two Dogs

Where have all the tea rooms gone?

Cruising down the River

It's All in the Name

A Colourful World