Monthly Archives: July 2010

Summer Holidays

.. are a good time to impart my grandfather’s wisdom to a seven year old who has cranked the whine waay up to “BUT I’M BORED!!”

“Then you need to be getting more creative, developing a richer inner life.”

“Whats an inner life?”

“The life you live inside your mind with your thoughts. When your thoughts entertain you and keep you busy. And when you put some of those thoughts down on paper, maybe make it work to music or movements, build something.”


“Because I already have a job description. It doesn’t include entertaining you 24-7. Get busy.”

Really. When did summer holidays become about constant regulated activity and camps? When do kids tap into their inner resources? Learn to figure out what to do with themselves and their own time? How do they learn how to turn boredom around? Read a book because the rest of the world has decided to ignore them?

I’ll be damned if I’m on program director duty for four weeks.

In between the fun stuff we do, you’re on your own, kids.

Mamma will be over there in the corner. Yes, behind the book. Right next to the martini cart. Call in event of SOS only.


Filed under holidays

A Rose By Any Other Name.. still a rose, but 10 years ago, it could have been an orchid and I would not have given a damn either way.

I particularly hated roses since they represented every single stale romantic cliché in the book and I – well, I had Simone de Beauvoir to live upto – I would be damned I was going be seen swooning over roses. Boys and/or men were allowed to resort to poetry, music, letters, silver and raw appeal. Roses would just have been a glaring amplification of HE DOES NOT KNOW ME ONE BIT. So.

My mother might have suggested roses for the wedding to decorate the mandap. She then ran for her life to avoid the avalanche of vitriol that would have drowned her.

Since my present is really all about making a mockery of my pretentious past, I present you this.

This is the first rose to bloom in my garden this year.

I sniffed it, I swooned over it, I spent hours watching it unfold and caught my breath staring into its complex, velvety depths. (Don’t worry, I promise not to spout any poetry likening the rose to complex, velvety woman parts – PUKE! Why do people do that? And what do you mean, do I have no life? Of course I don’t.)

It’s not the perfection that makes me love it. It’s the sweat.

Unlike a lot of other flowers, roses have attitude.

You can’t be casual about them.

They are tough, suddenly fragile, highly temperamental, a princess on a frikkin’ pea HIGH MAINTENANCE, if everything is NOT JUST SO, they will die on you. Or entertain lice. Or wither and look sickly. If you water them too much, their roots will not be able to seek water at the core. Thats where they derive their true strength from –  the deep recesses of the moist earth. If you are not passionate about their well-being, they will not care to respond with splendour. You must water, spray, fertilise and actually nurture something (that is not a child) every single day. This constancy and care (not my strongest suits – either of them) have changed me permanently.

It takes one high maintenance lady to know and love another.


Filed under Garden

The End

It wasn’t more than a pause. A heartbeat of an answer that would not form itself as syllables, words.

It was a moment of stark and poetic honesty.

It was the moment we were pronounced dead.


Filed under Fiction

Melt Report

Last Friday, I trundled into Armaan’s daycare to pick him up and my self-proclaimed Angen Fnuff  (Angel Fluff) flung himself off the swing and into my arms with the velocity that is solely reserved for little boys made of shiny, shimmery dust.

I can attest that that is the singular most fantastic feeling in the world. Even if you love sex. And chocolate.

Once we were all snuggled and re-united, I put him down so I could have a quick chat with his carer about his day. A little girl, A, on another swing began to cry at this point to be let off the swing.

Before the carer could respond, Angen Fnuff was there, helping her down gently, carefully and dusting her off.  He then bent way down to look her in the eyes and asked, ” Are you okay? Don’t cry, ok?”.

He. Patted. Her. Cheek. You GUYYYYS!!!!

She looked up at him with her adoring eyes and gave him the tightest hug ever. He rubbed her back.

Such a colossal amount of sighing was probably almost inappropriate on the part of the two adults witnessing this display. But our hearts were..well.. wrung.

I am going to keep a box of kleenex ready for when this boy brings his love home.

And if I was two, I would doubtless have a crush on him too.


Filed under Armaan, love