Sue Wildish in Cape Town

I've not written in a while.  No other reason than it's been crazy busy between Positive Heroes and the new Knead (which is soon to open in Dean Street Arcade in Newlands).  Plus I went to London for 10 days as a pre-birthday treat to myself.  I slid in just as the cloud descended and flew out the day after it lifted.  It's always in the timing.

My parents weren't as lucky – having to spend four extra days knocking around London.  At least they had somewhere to stay – unlike thousands of people who appeared endlessly on Sky News, sleeping in various airports, apparently thrown to the dogs by the airlines.   I even got a note from BA asking me to consider giving up my seat to someone who needed to be repatriated asap.  I demurred because I wanted to get home. Sorry folks – but I had work to do.  When I got on the plane – Premium Economy and Business were empty.  Galling for two reasons – I had used airmiles to get to London and had tried to get a return seat in business only to be told there were no rewards seats available.   And secondly – if there were 10 000 South Africans sitting in London – one of whom apparently had needed my seat to get home – why the hell wasn't BA using any available seat to get them home?

BA – people who have airmiles have earned them by flying on your airline.  In my case – many, many times over many, many years. Free up a business seat for me if I want to spend my miles on one. Especially if the goddamned cabin is empty.  And – if your passengers are stranded – bring them home.  By whichever class available.

That way you won't appear greedy, and we will fly with you again.

On another front – this week I have made two purchases.  A pair of boots and a chair.  Both are to replace older versions, both were carefully considered purchases.  And both have turned out to be a bust.

Footwear and chairs have something in common. You don't really know how comfortable they are until you'e spent some time in them.  And, once you've spent some time in them – the retailer won't take them back.  Because they're now used.  They could give a shit that your feet are bleeding and your spine hooped and bowed.  Sorry Madam, once you've walked a mile – they're yours.

My heels keep slipping out of the boots … not something I could possibly have realised without walking said distance.  Plus the platform of the boot appears to be made of hardwood.   I've added in heel grips and a gel cushion – no cigar – I'm hobbling around like an chimp with a wedgie.  I tried to take them back and the sales assistant said: “no-one else has ever complained”.  Ah well, then, must be my misshapen fault.  Followed by: “you've worn them now, we can't take them back”.  So that's that – then.  R1200 down the drain.  Thanks Nine West.

I've had more luck with the chair.  Whilst a refund is not an option – I can exchange it – but asap so that it doesn't become “worn”. It's made of hard plastic, and I am of normal weight – so not sure how that would happen any time this century.  But, at least there is a glimmer of hope.  What I am going to have to do now;  is to audition chairs until I find one that suits.  What happens if I don't, is anyone's guess.

On Tuesday I went for my annual gynae exam and Dr Scott spent the best part of the appointment asking me if I was experiencing a litany of menopausal symptoms. Dear GOD! The List just went on. There are about 35 of them and they are all horrible shockers. I won't go into them all here; just know they're pretty much covered by the words: irregular, sweats, loss, gain, bloat, exhaustion, dryness, moodiness and just as a kicker – tinnitus.

What? Tinnitus? A roaring or ringing in the ears. Yes, I definitely had this one … it was the sound of my youth disappearing off down the highway on the back of a Big Boy.

Moira's own ears perked up: “You know what tinnitus is? Are you experiencing it?”  Sure I know what it is, it's a curse of the music biz … lots of rock stars have it – Pete Townsend, Sting, Eric Clapton, Thom Yorke, Bill Clinton. Standing too close to amplifiers for too long will damage your hearing. (Not sure what happened with Bill, though I suspect Pink Floyd's “Have a Cigar”, on repeat, might have had a hand in it. But I digress.) And no, I don't have tinnitus. Nor any of the other verbs, nouns and adjectives that apparently now define my female self.

Afterwards I limped sadly off to Priya – the genius massage therapist. My hip had started playing up and I needed her to fix it. Could it be, I asked timidly, Symptom no 15? Was this the advent of Osteoporosis?

“Oh, no”, she chortled merrily: “menopause is a Western Thing. It's just another way to pigeonhole women in your society. In India we don't even have a word for this. You're stiff because you overdid it at yoga. Nothing to do with age, everything to do with teacher.”

I skipped home and reread the pamphlet Dr Scott had pressed into my hand as I left. Many of the symptoms seemed equal opportunity: irritability, trouble sleeping, feeling ill at ease, disturbing memory lapses, hair loss, changes in body odour, weight gain, anxiety. Why were these all lumped together as a 'female condition'? I know plenty of guys who experience some, if not all, of them.

Which made me wonder: is menopause just the last in a long line of indignities visited on the female population? Yes our bodies change as we get older. Men's do too. But, for some reason taking little blue pills to deal with decreasing testosterone is simply proof that there's a lot of “go” left in the old boy yet. HRT, on the other hand, signals the end of femininity.

Can we agree to put an end to this nonsense right now? To stop permanently assigning fifty-something women to the red tent and let us get Potenzmittel Cialis Generika jetzt in 20mg und 5mg rezeptfrei… on with being exactly what we are? Capable, experienced, resilient and sick of wearing labels.

I went to Spier Contemporary 2010 last Saturday.  It's a visual and performance art exhibition underwritten by Spier, usually held on their wine estate, but this year held in the Cape Town City Hall. The idea was to make the 132 artworks and 101 artists represented accessible to all.   Whilst I was there it was mainly single woman and gay blokes.  All white.  So very Cape Town.

As I wandered through the warren of rooms I became more and more gloomy.  Art doesn't usually do that to me – and this exhibition hadn't provoked a grey response last year.  Nor the year before.  But there was little joy in any of the exhibits. Perhaps a reflection of the year that has passed?  Either in the art that was submitted or in the hearts of the curators – who knows.  But, apart from a moment where I walked into a room and a jackhammer slammed into ear splitting motion scaring the shit out of me, the only thing that raised a glimmer of a smile was a collection of photos representing SA presidents past and present with their emblems.  Thabo sported a black Aids ribbon, PW a 'sold' rosette, die Groot Krokodil – an ass-about facing lacoste croc. Joe Zuma's portrait was unadorned.  Perhaps in hope, perhaps in anticipation:  the artist hadn't commented.

I did love one piece – Matthew Hindley's “I Meant  to Have but Modest Needs” …  a real oil painting on a grand scale.  If I could have afforded anything at the  exhibition – I would have bought this. As much for the title as the artist's abilities. I've been spending a lot of  time recently considering what I really need. A job I had thought would bring regular work wasn't panning out that way and my cloth needed recutting to suit my needs.  I just am not absolutely sure what those are.  A new friend had  told me that when she was really sick, and she couldn't get out of bed to walk to the bathroom – she didn't think about needing another pair of shoes in her closet, or a trip to Asia, or a bigger house.  Things she had always thought she needed.  All she could think of was how badly she needed to walk on the beach.  Her parameters had become clarified. Focused by her illness.

There was cheering outside so I moved over to the window to see what was going on.  A man was walking on a wire strung between two palm trees. He was barefoot, chubby, shirtless- cirque de afrique – and hamming it up mercilessly for the crowd. I took out my camera and a security guard was over at my side in an instant. When he saw what I was shooting, he smiled and said – “Watch, he will put fire into his trousers.”  Which the man did, to the delight of the kids who screamed and ran about in deliciously horrified circles. People darted through the smoke to drop coins into a tin pipe he had laid on the ground.  He shook it in thanks and coloured feathers puffed out. The guard watched with me for a while and then said: “Where does a person go to learn to know magic? I would like to go there.”  I shook my head.  Sorry mate, been a bit short on magic lately.  The man, said the guard, was from Zimbabwe. It could be that he learned magic there. I told him I was born in Zimbabwe and he smiled – “maybe you know magic too”.

I walked back through the exhibition thinking about his words.  It's not so much about magic as about knowing what you need. The man on the ground needed to make money.  He used magic in service of his needs.  He serviced the crowd's need for entertainment with his magic. Was it magic or was it need.  It all depended on how you looked at things.  All I need now is the right pair of eyes.

I've been traveling these past 10 days – working with my new crew at The Poker Room.  Without going into it too deeply: we use the techniques, tools, strategies, and people-reading skills required in poker as a business training tool.   And then we play poker.

It's said you're never too old to learn something new – and I've been thinking that a lot this week.  Apart from learning the game, I've realised that I miss being on the road.  I miss airports, and hotels and room service and being exhausted.

I've also missed the huge cast of characters you get to meet when you travel.

Highlights for me these past 10 days have been the Durban 4 – Indian men of various backgrounds who shared two qualities – they are all implicitly decent and they are all dreamers.  We had a wonderful lunch talking about ourselves and this country of ours. They reminded me of the men my Dad used to work with and of my Dad.  Roy was an insurance salesman who hardworked his way up through the ranks.  I remember the long absences from home, the stress about meeting targets and the exhausted entertaining.  These chaps have all done the same. Providing for the family, keeping their faith and having a good laugh along the way.

Then there were the good old Joeys boys – the solid Boereboys who still speak Afrikaans as their first taal, but who share the many of the qualities of their Durban colleagues.  They laugh hard, drink hard and go all in at the first sign of an ace.  Roaring their disapproval at the cards as they flop a beat hand. Focusing intently as we teach them about communication and body language.  Practising it diligently in groups.  Lovely stuff.

And finally the Zimbabweans who work at the venue in Johannesburg.  Bringing a level of excellence and sweetness to their service that is world-class.  They arrived, early, stayed late and smiled the whole way through.  Professional to their core.  Despite being a long, long way from a home that offers no immediate chance of a future.

Folks – whether we are ready for the World Cup or not (and I think we will be): we already have a lot to be proud of.  We have us.  And we're pretty bloody fantastic.

**(actually all five of the men in my family are decent men:  Roy, Mark, Chris and Justin.  And Jasper is our little man.)

(If The Poker Room intrigues you – check us out at www.thepokerrooom.co.za)

a woman in a giant double-cab truck/car thing menaced me down the highway today.  I was sitting patiently behind an old lady , in the fast lane on De Waal drive, when she came right up behind me, filling up my rearview mirror completely with the huge-osity of her car.  Despite the fact that she sat six feet higher than me, I could tell it was a woman as she was smoking and talking on the phone at the same time, and we all know that old saw about men and multitasking.

When a gap appeared in the lane alongside me,  I moved across and the woman tanked up behind the old dear who sat steadfastly and resolutely in her lane.  And I stayed parallel – so our Trucker was boxed in.   She flashed, she hooted, she tried to change lanes. While I watched the performance I wondered:  is that the purpose of having such a large car?   To menace the other drivers.

I just can't figure it out.  People here drive cars big enough to lead armies into war.   A full size hummer was at the petrol station yesterday – taking up two lanes and two pumps and two attendants.  And when he left, he didn't tip either of them.

It used to be said that the size of a man's car reflected his concerns about the size of his willy.  Yet more and more women are driving these monsters.  Is this some sort of feminist gesture I've missed out on.  My willy's as big as you wish your willy was?

Beats me.  But I had the extreme pleasure of watching Truck-woman work herself up into a frenzy today when Nana wouldn't move over.  So, I guess they do serve some purpose.

… advice from Bob Marley which I've always held as bit of a motto.  But have jumped – fairly often – nonetheless.

This week man who could swim, jumped in the water and was eaten by a shark.  If that sounds flippant – apologies – but that is what happened.  He was out beyond the breakers, swimming with goggles on (so, not just splashing around) and a Great White hit him.   Then came back for the rest of him.  So our beaches have been cleared this week.  The papers trumpeting that  eight Great Whites were spotted along the coast between Muizenberg and Kalk Bay on Tuesday.  And much discussion as to who has more right to be in the water.  Followed by the inevitable questions whether global warming was responsible.

Which, of course it isn't.   The fish saw what it thought was prey.  The man was out of his element and terribly, terribly vulnerable. These two things led to an encounter that could only end in tragedy.

There was a whole lot of advice in the papers as to what you should do in the event of a shark attacking you:  punch it on the nose, stay calm and remain still,  stick your finger in its eye, act as the aggressor … etc.  C'mon folks – have you seen these things? They are as big as mini-bus taxis.  And a million times more dangerous. It is also helpful to have someone else in the water with you apparently – not sure why – perhaps you point at them and say: 'Oi, leave me alone…sic him'.

When I was growing up here, there was a list of 'shark savvy tips' posted at Muizenberg and Sunrise beaches.  I memorised them because I had just seen Jaws and was terrified of starring in my own Amity-isle horror:

“Do not swim out beyond the breakers into deep water.

Do not swim or surf alone.

Do not surf-cast with live bait when standing in the breakers.

Do not go in the water before dawn or after dusk.

Do not go in the water with a dog or a horse.”

The other day I was at Muizenberg, taking a walk, and I saw people doing all of the above.   Now, I doubt that Great White behaviour has changed over the years.  So we've been taking chances.   And every now and then – Nature sees fit to remind us of that.

So what lesson can we take from this tragedy?  For me it is 'apply commonsense'.   If the black flag is up on a beach where there have been shark attacks in the past: take heed – the visibility is bad and the shark spotters up in the hills can't see a damn thing. Don't jump in the water.  Whether you can swim or not.

We went to a concert at Kirstenbosh the other evening.  We being: my parents, brother,  two nieces, nephew and friend from London, Tracy.  They've all been staying for the past 8 days –  completely hectic, but wonderful.

This kids' ages range from two to six.  So I needed to look at Cape Town through fresh eyes.  And the Fist Full of Diamond's concert at Kirstenbosch seemed a good option.  We packed up a picnic, brought mounds of warm clothes and blankets (doing anything with kids, I've learned, is like moving a bedouin encampment) and headed off for what isone of the most beautiful spots to see live music anywhere in the world.

Kirstenbosch is a botanical garden – bequeathed to the city by Cecil Rhodes when he died in 1902.It's a wonderful, unstuffy place – with streams and pools for the kids to splash in, grass to picnic on – and gorges to hike if you have the inclination.

The stage is set at the bottom of a gentle rolling lawn and last Sunday it held three singer/songwriters: Dan Patlansky, Josie Field and Farryl Purkiss who each played short individual sets – then joined forces for a jam.  It was fabulous. The kids danced, stuffed roast chicken into their mouths, played at the 'kiddies club' and generally had a ball.

The adults lounged on a picnic blanket, keeping one eye on the weather moving in over the mountain and chilled out:  asking each other from time to time – “where else in the world could we be on the beach all day, and halfway up a mountain at a rock concert in the evening?”  If anyone out there knows the answer – drop me a line.

We also discovered the waterslide park at Sunrise Beach.  Although it's pretty horrible looking from the road, it  was undoubtedly the smash hit of the 8 days.  The kids  ran up and slid downfor a couple of hours,  tired  themselves out completely and begged to go back the  next day.  Affordable, containable and superclean – the  place is ideal for any kid over four.  The littlest one went  to the beach with her Poppa and lolled around in the  shallows.

We also:  picnic'd on 4th Beach for New Years Eve, hiked along the high road on Table Mountain to an icy mountain pool, boogie boarded at Muizenberg, drank Frothaccinos and ate chocolate muffins at Seattle coffee, fished in rockpools at Seapoint and swam at Newlands public swimming pool when the wind was up.  All in all – a nonstop round of kid-fun.  Adults too.

If staycations are the new vacations: then Cape potenzmittel Town is the new black!

I missed the importance of the '95 Rugby World Cup to South Africa.  Partly because I've never been a major sports fan.  And partly because late June is peak touring season in Europe and I would have been on the road somewhere working.  Yet, for two hours on Christmas Eve – I was totally engrossed in Clint Eastwood's take on John's Carlin's book “Playing the Enemy”.

I'd read all the criticism:   Matt Damon has the emotive range of a salamander (oh who cares, have you seen the man?), Morgan Freeman's accent is patchy, the rugby was 'staged' (no shit, really?)   So I wasn't expecting much.  But I loved every moment. Invictus was the perfect pre-Christmas movie.  It is about hope and determination.  About possibility.  And it made me smile, and cry, and be awed, again, by Madiba's mind.

I met him once, at SA house in London late April 2001.  R.E.M. were playing the Freedom Day Concert in Trafalgar Square and I was co-ordinating the media. Madiba sent word to the soundcheck that he wanted to meet everyone involved in the show. We trooped upstairs to a room in the Embassy – and in he came.  Moving from person to person: shaking hands and thanking them for their time.  When he got to me, I got all choked up and could hardly talk. Michael had to tell him my name.  He stood there until I composed myself, then asked:

“How long have you been away?”    “16 years, Madiba.”

“16 years?  That's long enough –  it's time to take what you have learned and go back.  We will need  you.”

I just nodded and he squeezed my hand:  “I'll see you back at home”.  And he was gone.

And here I am – back in Cape Town;  Madiba's not a bad guy to take career advice from.

I think Matt did a great job as Francois Pienaar – a decent man who understood what his President was trying to achieve. Morgan's accent and mannerisms were spot on.  And Clint really got the importance of rugby to this country, and the politics that were involved.  So, ignore the hairsplitters, the movie is a must see.  Watch it with your heart.

PS:  The name of the movie comes from a poem that helped keep Madiba strong while he was in prison.  It's worth a read – I've take the liberty of printing it below

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Earnest Henley