Senior moment

Mother: Oh darling, your Oros seems to be off! I do wish you wouldn't let your stuff go bad, it's such a waste of money.
You: Oros can't go off...the tartrazine levels are such that it would survive a nuclear war... the cockroaches will be enjoying cold Oros in the apocolypse.
Mother: Well, it has... it's very bitter - you children are very wasteful.. oh wait I bought tonic water instead of soda."
You: Sigh.

Oh darling!

I’m of a generation where our parents, well mothers, appeared to be very interested in maintaining certain standards. All the good stuff like, saying please and thank you, standing up when older people walk in the room, smiling at old people and, of course, ensuring your underwear were always in a respectable state.

I was recently reminded of this insane quirk when the state of my underwear got to the point that they were only held up by sheer willpower, and I could just hear my mother saying, ‘Oh darling, you must have good underwear… I mean... what would happen if you were in an accident?”

I’ve never understood it. I mean, we have all watched enough episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or ER24 to know that you’ve never, ever heard a conversation along the lines of:

Nurse: ‘All surgeons to the ER there’s been an accident. Multiple victims.’

Paramedic: ‘Young girl, about 14, fractured arm, lacerations on the upper armpit, constipation and trouble breathing.’

Nurse: ‘20mg of methylethylbroximytosis, 2 vials of lamb’s blood, set up an IV with laxatives and extract of cabbage. Stat. And get me a … oh my god it’s worse than I thought…

Doctor: What is it nurse? Internal bleeding?

Nurse: ‘No. Underwear with loose elastic and what looks like a tear in the gluteus maximum region.’

Doctor: ‘Migod! What was the mother thinking? Of course, now we’ll have to judge her and possibly even refuse to operate.’

Nurse: ‘It's in the rules, you don't have to diagnose or even operate... move on... I think we have a young boy with a broken leg and some marginally soiled but in-tact boxers in the next cubicle.’

#Justsaying.

When men were men, and trolls were hairy.

 I yearn for the days when one knew what was what and who was who. Princes were on horses. Princesses were beautiful. Stepmothers were cruel. You know - the usual plot lines. Today it’s not so easy. Princes are in helicopters, Princesses don’t want to be stereotyped by archaic genders and stepmothers – well, let’s just say some things don’t change.

Let’s go back a century or two where, after a long summer of pillaging, Scandinavian types had nothing better to do during the long, cold nights than terrify their children with stories of trolls who lived on isolated rocks, in caves or on mountains. A fact, which to me, explains their testiness. I’m sure that if they’d been allowed to mingle with the town folk next to a toasty fire, they would have been a bit more amenable and less likely to eat the children.

Fast forward to ‘once upon a time’ when, instead of toll roads, they had troll roads with the obligatory troll who lived under a bridge. These hirsute beasts, instead of issuing speeding fines, delighted in giving goats a bad time and just generally getting a bad rap.

In modern literature Tolkein, gave us a whole bunch of Stone, Two-Headed, Hill, Cave, Mountain and Snow trolls and I’m sure Harry Potter had some run ins with one or two at Hogwarts.   My point is that you knew they were big, ugly, hairy and had designs on your intestines.

Today, not so much.

I discovered that there’s a new breed of troll – the electronic troll or e-troll. This type is even more insidious because, literally they can be anyone. Male, female, young, old. You, maybe? I ran into them when I ‘Liked’ NASA on Facebook because I love reading about space and stuff (when will they make Elon Musk president of the universe?).

Well, blow me down and call me Mable if every post about Saturn, Mars, a new double-headed nebula or bigger, blacker hole didn’t elicit a barrage of ‘NASA lies’, ‘stop using CGI’, ‘space is fake’ tirades. These are, of course, interspersed with the odd ‘Jesus saves’ sermons.

Now I really don’t give a rat’s backside whether you believe that the earth is flat or that Jesus does save (I hope he does, especially in this economy), but why, oh why, do you follow these pages if you think they are a crock?

The short answer is that they are trolls, who instead of getting on with life sit around on rocks, on mountains or in Benoni trawling through pages with the sole aim of being a dipwit.  I suppose it is a troll’s right, but surely they should have their own Facebook page where they could spend the day loving or hating God; denying space; confirming or denying climate change to their hearts’ content?

I wish we could banish them to isolated rocks, caves or mountains, which would really give them something to bitch and moan about, but we can’t. Something to do with freedom of speech.

Yes, but does it have a torch?

Hi. I'm Katharine, I'm gadgetophile [ga-jitofile].

Hi Katharine.

It's true.

I cannot be let loose in a hardware store with a credit card because I will actively seek out gadgets and buy them. I don't need them and, chances are, I'll probably never use them but, and here's the kicker, you never know.

That terrible phrase, 'What if...' is what drives me to walk down the aisles carefully checking for the latest time- and/or life-changing gadget that has been designed to make me invent instances in which I could use a pencil that's also a spirit level with handy retractable tape measure.

You know what I'm talking about. Left-handed notebooks (the spiral is on the other side), flash drives that are fans and spy cameras, pens with whistles and multi-coloured nibs that light up.  I am also unlikely to walk past packs, such as useful DIY painting kits with five different sized paintbrushes, drop sheet, fluffly rolly thing, plastic tray, masking tape and, if you choose the deluxe model, a paint scraper.  I'll buy it because, well, I can. I'm probably not going to paint but... What if the Paint Police arrive and tell me to paint my bathroom or face arrest? Who will be going to prison? Not me.

I probably have about 5 sets of screwdrivers of various sizes and handiness. The normal ones, the little all-in-one variety that invites you to push out the little heads and change it for another size or head type. The other day I found a box set that would help me carry my screwdrivers around the house. As one does. And it's awesome.

I also have a full set of Allen keys, which I was actually going to use before I discovered I needed a PhD in engineering to fit a new brake light bulb. Thanks Ford.

Torches are a particular weakness and the other day during a 'I must pack this crap away' moment, I discovered eight or nine. They ranged from the common-or-garden cheapie that goes with the kids on camp, to LED, single bulb, multi-bulb and even a kinetic one I got from Spur to go with my wind-up radio. The technology escapes me but they score at least 8 on the 'What if-ness' scale. When aliens come, don't come crying to me when it gets dark.

However, my most prized possession is a torch that has a beam (for seeing), red flashing lights (for emergencies), magnetic bits (for to stick to metal while you're either trying to see or attract attention), window smasher (for when you drive into a lake and need to escape), and seatbelt cutter (for when you're trapped). A definite 9 on the 'What if-ness scale'.

And, please god, don't get me started on camping equipment.

Falling apart

They say growing old isn't for sissies. It isn't for ninjas either because even their knees give in after a while. I think it's all of the roof jumping.

I remember the days when I could climb a fence without impaling myself or jump a stream without pulling a fat. I can also remember laughing at my mother because she a) fell asleep while reading and b) never woke up when the book fell onto her face.

But that was then. This is now.

As my mother's one moniker is the Grey-headed Bush Shrike, the silver signs of aging were accepted with forbearance. The same couldn't be said about finding my first grey eyebrow, however. But, in comparison to the discovery of several chin hairs, it was a calm, zen-like experience. It appeared that my transition into witch or warthog was almost complete. All I was missing was a wart and a broomstick - although without opposable thumbs, warthogs would find steering quite difficult.

In my thirties Short-arm Syndrome started and my eyesight has deteriorated to the point where the font size on my phone can be read from the moon. I now also can't see if I'm using shampoo or conditioner in the shower and am on the verge of writing 'S' and 'C' in thick black koki on the bottles. Oh, the shame.

Karma then started to turn the wheel. It started with infrequent wakings up with the book open and progressed to being startled awake as the book fell to the floor with a thud. And just this week it progressed to the point that, when the alarm went off at 5.30 I woke up to find the light on, my book on the floor and the dog lying on my glasses. Foolishly I imagined things couldn't get much worse. My body had other ideas.

Falling asleep on the sofa has moved from the exception to the norm. I'd fool myself by lying down 'just to watch the end of the programme' and wake up two-and-a-half hours later with such a severe case of pins and needles in my wrist that I thought I'd had a stroke. Or whatever other disease is symptomatic of wristicular (medical term) pins and needles. Bad? Yes. The worst? No.

One night I was sitting upright, enjoying a cup of coffee while watching TV when I was woken by warm liquid trickling down my leg. It was quite a shock. Firstly, I hadn't even realised I had fallen asleep and, secondly, I naturally feared the worst. Nervously I looked down to discover, with quite some relief, that in my catatonic state, the coffee cup had tipped over onto my thigh.  Not my proudest moment but much better than having to go out and buy adult diapers.

I felt positive that I couldn't surpass this senior moment until today when I finally found my mobile phone in my lunch box in the fridge.

Sniff sniff

I get that dogs like to sniff every blade of grass and that it's irritating when you're trying to have a walk, but surely one sniff is enough to get the message. You know, like, "Oh, wow, Fluffy's pregnant again."

What I don't get is, "Oh. Wow!!!. Fluffy's pregnant again. Smells like 4th week and omigod with that German Shepherd from 26 - has she no class? Oh yes... some bacon for breakfast. And, what? Smells like she's been at the duck poo again too. And... wait ... is that multivitamins again? Ew... folic acid. What the.."

Bad decision

There's a plant that decided to grow into my bathroom.

I'm sure there are some mornings when I'm sure it wishes it hadn't.

That's HRH to you

So we all know that you can be straight or gay or bi or he-she or she-he or transvestite or transgender or all of the above but, today, I heard a woman say she was trans-black. So basically, she was a black person born to white parents.

So I kinda figured out that if that is, in fact, a thing then I must be trans-princess. So, what this means, dear readers, is that I am actually a princess born into a life of advertising and, therefore, deserve a castle, some horses and loads of land upon which I can frolic. Oh, and possibly a tiara.

Just give me a ring when you're ready.

Thanks.

Dumb and dumber.

So ornithologists and mammalologists and reptilologists (ew) are always telling us how clever animals are and that they have instincts and genetic savvy. They carefully explain about navigation systems, courting, nesting, migrating, webs and so on and so forth.

Well, I'm here to tell you it's not really true. Some animals are seriously dumb. Let's take rabbits. I think the only reason their gene pool survived is because of high humping tendencies and very little to do with brains.

I had two rabbits. Emphasis on had. Mr Cuddles (who it turned out was gender fluid) and Phoebe. I was given them by a 'friend' who thought my daughter would love to look after the cute little furry things. As a mother, this 'friend' should have known better. I won't lie - they were cute. To look at. Their sanitary habits were something else. But I digress.

I couldn't bear to keep them in a hutch so I rabbit-proofed my back yard and let them lollop around there. I modified the hutch so they could hop in to nap or snuggle in the hay. Hell, I even built them a cunning second one in case they wanted some alone time. They were cosy, waterproof and built with love. The rabbits, however, chose to get sun stroke and hypothermia. It was so irritating - they would literally sit, next to the hutch in the pouring rain too dumb to go inside. At first I thought it was because the hutches may not have met their exacting leporine standards so I added more hay, hung a few pictures and installed Dstv. No. It wasn't enough. Or perhaps it was too much. Anyway they escaped one day and, as I mentioned before, it didn't end well.

My second example, and I'm sure that National Geographic won't be calling this a definitive study, is a frog that's a few warts short of a prince. I live in beautiful estate with loads of open spaces, there's a river, mud - frog bliss. My garden isn't bad either - it's quite big, a bit overgrown and has a million mosquitoes living in the undergrowth. So where goes the frog live? In my spare plastic bags in the recycling bin outside. Maybe it's evolving to live in our polluted world or it's plain crazy. I fear the latter as the other day I tried to move it into the garden and it actually growled at me as I tried to lower the container on its side. I'm serious, an actual growling noise. I figured it must know what it wanted so I put it back upright and left it. After all, who am I to mess with mother nature and her clever creatures?

Post script: As I sit here writing this during Tropical Storm Dineo, Gauteng Edition, I found said frog in the kitchen. I have no idea how it got in - I don't have a frog flap - but it's under the washing machine now. Sigh.