I can't, even.

So I thought I would write a piece about taxi drivers and their interesting take on sharing the road with other motorists. However, after about three attempts, I realised that I couldn't adequately describe the level of lunacy and complete disregard for the rules of the road these guys display. It's also difficult to put into words just what a taxi driver will do to get one car in front of you - no pavement is too steep, no bus too big, no gap too small, hell - even which side of the road they drive on is optional. I also realised that no-one would actually believe what I wrote.

I'm not sure what 'Whatever goes' is in latin but I think it should be a mandatory sticker on the back bumper - right next to 100% Venda and Zola.

There goes the neighbourhood

I recently repainted my room so I was sleeping in the spare room and using the other bathroom. On day two I happened to go into my bathroom to get something and discovered that a spider, perhaps the winner of the arachnid version of the Darwin Award, had built a web across the loo.

I know it probably thought to itself, 'Hey, check this out! Quiet, great view of the basin, private pool, super easy to work on - love the colour... it's gonna be easy pickings.'

But can you imagine the size of all eight of that spider's eyes if I had wandered through half asleep in the middle of the night and it looked up. 

Talk about getting more than you bargained. Way more.

Walkies!

I'm the proud grandmother (read mother) of a Pekinese/Daschund-cross called Pebbles. And, because I'm an indulgent granny, she goes for a walk every day (sometimes twice), which has many benefits - I get loads of fresh air, meet a lot of other walkers and, of course, know all the popular pee spots.

Barbara Woodhouse would definitely not approve of my dog obedience training skills but would, however, be very impressed at how well Pebbles has me trained. Despite her small stature, she has learned how to anchor herself to the ground in order to make me stop so that she can get a whiff of the day's pee du jour. She also knows how to leopard crawl - a tactic she uses when she wants to go to the dam for a dip. She's also schizophrenic. Off the leash, and I'm talking Pebbles here, it's all sweetness and light. However, clip on the leash and she turns into a maniac with all the strength of a pitbull and the sense of teenager on hormones - but I digress.

Far from being aimless, my wanderings have lead to certain interesting scientific discoveries. While my paper submitted to the Journal of Canine Perambulations hasn't been published yet, I can share with you (with pride) that I have classified a few distinct variety of dog walker. 

Let's start with the Friendlies. They greet you, discuss the weather, point out an interesting bird, say rude things about the body corporate and nice things about your dog ("She's so cute, I'm sure she didn't mean to draw blood!").

Then we have the Greeters. This group isn't that interested in whether you think it's hot for this time of year, or that it's early for the swallows to be back but they will greet you with a cheery "Hello!" or "Morning!". 

Moving down the list we have the Nodders. This bunch are generally in exercise mode and cannot allow mere conversation to distract them from reaching their daily step count. As they stride purposefully up to you, sweat glistening awkwardly on their upper lip, they hope that their intent is enough to move you off the path so they can reach their target and go home for a croissant. Not entirely rude, you'll get an acknowledgement of your lowly existence with a brief nod and perhaps even a smile. Their dogs have been trained not to sniff at anything and cannot, therefore, be trusted.

Then we have the Grunters. These people always seem so angry that I often wonder whether they wouldn't be happier in a dungeon punching a wall rather than taking a walk.Or maybe they're masochists ("I told you not to enjoy that cup of tea, now you must walk. Outside. Where you may see people who will smile and try and engage you in conversation. And take the dog.") Whatever the case, your smile or greeting is met by a terse 'grunh' as they step hurriedly past you in case your friendliness is contagious. 

At the bottom of the dog-walking gene pool are the Avoiders. These people behave as though they saw your picture on the CIA's Most Wanted List and you can literally see them plotting how to protect themselves should you suddenly attack them with the leash. As you get closer they actually step off the path and give you such a wide berth you'd swear the 'Unclean' sign was still around your neck. 

A bit of a swinger

Some years ago, I got the sudden urge to learn how to play golf. I’m not sure where the urge came from, but like the proverbial monkey on your back, it wasn’t going anywhere so I persuaded a friend of mine, who had access to left-handed clubs, to take me to the driving range.

Like most beginners I found it really difficult to get the club in the same place as the ball at the same time. Disheartened but determined, I decided to try her right-handed clubs and things started to go quite a lot better. I’m not saying that any coaches rushed over to sign me up or anything but I did manage to hit more balls than I missed.

Now, if you’ve ever been to a driving range you’ll know that the individual zones have just enough room for some clubs, a bucket of balls and your swing. Although I don’t have a problem with the space, I definitely think people should know what level golfer they’re standing next to. My solution? Clearly demarcated sections with the appropriate danger warnings e.g. first timer, hacker, looks better than hits, knows which clubs to use, hustler, pro. I only mentioned this because, the cockier I got, the harder I tried to hit, which is never a great idea when you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s a bit like giving curry to a 92-year old – at some point shit’s going to get real.

And, in my case, it got real for the earnest young man next to me. I wound up like a New York Yankees pitcher, lifted my head, straightened my legs, took my eye off the ball and bliksemed that golf ball off the toe of the club right into the back of his thigh. He shot forward, his back arching away from the pain and turned, wild eyed, to confront the perpetrator of what I’m sure turned out to be the biggest bruise of his life. When he saw me, I’m sure it took every inch of self-control for him to grimace sweetly through teary eyes and say, ‘It’s okay’. However, I’m also sure that if there was no girlfriend next to him and I was male, I’d probably be the proud owner of some shiny dentures.

Despite my less than perfect start I bought some clubs, took some lessons and progressed to the point where I could be let loose on a golf course. My first ex-husband enrolled me at Rand Park where I honed my swearing skills and learned ‘search and recover’ techniques that would have made a Marine proud. I was also taught a valuable lesson by two Irishmen – that if I imagined the ball was the back of his head, I could drive about 20m further.

There’s no doubt it’s a very frustrating game and a great leveller but, if you’ve never played, you should. The elusive, but addictive sound of a perfectly hit shot will keep you going back despite the shanks, hooks, slices, bogeys and missed 2-inch putts. I know.

Shanti

When it was recently suggested that I had the core muscles of a marshmallow, I decided it was time to find an exercise regimen that aimed to strengthen my muscles without actually causing death, to regain some flexibility without snapping any major muscle groups and perchance to lose a kilo or two in the process.

Let me hastily say that I'm not looking to enter Mrs Universe (pensioner division) or do triple salto flick flacks down the passage. I just want to be able to do some gardening without my knees locking so that I'm forced to roll over like a stunned Christmas beetle, then perform the ‘Rock and roll upsa-daisy” manoeuvre and then stagger like Quasimodo for a couple of meters until my knees unlock and I can walk upright again. Entertaining for the neighbours, yes; embarrassing for a teenage child, definitely; undignified, sure.

So I asked around and the answer seemed to be yoga. Nice people, great music, some humming, the odd leg in the air (core training) and incense. So I signed up for a beginner’s class with the lovely Bagua. Lithe, toned and vegetarian she inspired confidence and radiated tranquillity and so, it was without a trace of fear, that I got a mat and sat down.

Luckily we didn't sit in the Reposing Lotus too long otherwise lock-knee would have prevented me from being able to get up to start my asana (hindi for torture). We started with an ‘easy’ Warrior 1 pose and it soon became evident that my balance wasn't that hot. I wobbled my way into Hashtumagatasana (who I thought was a Sri Lankan fast bowler, but clearly not) and then into the Bananainpajhama when I unintentionally fell into a Downward Facing Dog (Adhonwanna Dothis Aneemor). More surprised than hurt, I soon discovered that where my wrists should have been, were some soggy bits of papier mâché.

I lasted about 15 seconds before I had to collapse in an untidy heap (toes not flexed). Sweetly Bagua mentioned that we should only do what we were comfortable with and after another ten minutes it became painfully clear to me that I would have felt more comfortable sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee.

I managed to bumble my way the rest of my class and I swore at one point that I saw Bagua's eyes roll backwards in her head. However, I think it had less to do with attaining Nirvana than the total horror of realizing she had to deal with me for the next few months.

Wonderful world of wildlife

On my walk with the dogs this morning, it was just light enough for me to see, through the mist rising off the dam, a Purple Heron sitting perfectly still. It was a wonderful picture but as I took a few moments to take in the magical scene, I wondered if birds or animals were actually doing what we thought they were doing. So if you could start reading in your best David Attenborough voice, here goes…

David: And here, on the banks of this urban dam, we see a Purple Heron, Ardea purpurea. Using the early morning mist as camouflage, it’s patiently hoping for an unsuspecting Oreochromis niloticus to swim within striking distance. Then, with a lightening fast strike, it will insert its beak into the body of the fish, killing it instantly.

Purple heron: Crap, it’s so cold this morning I can hardly move.

David: This has to be one of the most spectacular sights on our planet – the annual migration of millions of plains antelope across the Serengeti. Over millennia, this primal instinct is as regular as a porcupine on a high-fibre diet. Majestic. Unbelievable. It’s an incredible display of nature battling the elements.

Zebras: Foooooooooood!

David: In an elaborate greeting, the lesser Flumber bird of Borneo shakes its head and rolls its eyes to show it’s not an aggressor and that it understands its place in the sophisticated hierarchy dominated by elder matriarchs.

Flumber bird: Hey Bob. You don’t understand what’s going on in my head right now. I’m hanging so badly – I’m never doing jungle juice again. Ever.

David: In a life-and-death struggle, these two kudu bulls are using every ounce of their strength to overcome the other. To the untrained eye this is a tussle for superiority and perhaps, even, the right to mate but it’s more than that. The horns, curved and majestic, when knocked together make the sound of G sharp, warning other competitors, in no uncertain terms, to ‘stay away’.

Big kudu: It’s easy. Say ‘uncle’ and you can have Doris.

David: And, in what is the most important time in any animal’s life, the male marmoset must show his female that he’s worth enduring the prolonged and utterly boring mating procedure that involves a curious spitting ritual and the unnecessary flaunting of his inflamed eyeballs.

Marmoset: OMG that curry was hot!

Masterchef Randburg

In my next life I’m sure I’ll enjoy cooking. That’s because I’ll have married a rich person who can afford all the ingredients required to cook awesome food. And the cost of a 3-star Michelin chef to have at my beck and call.

My cooking style has been labelled ‘nouveau single mom’ and is usually a scintillating fusion of ‘viande du porc avec le potatoes mashed with a jus of packet gravy’. Although I do remember that one night I whipped up a pretty good chicken stirfry. I think the Saturn was in retrograde or something but I was certainly never able to replicate it.

There were evenings when, as I served dinner to my daughter, I really felt quite sorry for her and fully understood why she liked to have dinner at my sister’s house so much.  However, I have to admit that, as hormones kicked in, my cooking would reflect the way she behaved (or didn’t) so it devolved into a kind of revenge cuisine. I’m only joking, I’d never been that mean. I mean, I didn’t actually set out to cook badly – it comes naturally – but I was just less apologetic when I did.

Now weirdly and in a strange twist of fate (Saturn had moved into the seventh quadrant) I’ve become a keen watcher of Masterchef Australia.  I don’t understand a lot of what they’re doing, what they’re doing it with, and have no actual interest in wanting to try, but it’s somehow fascinating. Like a mongoose and a snake fascinating. 

The show is generally on while I’m cooking, which means that, while Gary is yelling, ‘Come on, come on, cook from your heart – you’ve only got 3 minutes to go’ and the poor little mongooses are yelling, ‘Yes chef’, I’m rustling up my 2-minute noodle surprise. And it’s then that I wonder what they’d say if they could see what was happening on my stove.

Matt (sliding a look of unfeigned disgust to Gary): “Well, this is interesting!”

George: “I love the way she’s deconstructed the meal in such a way that it looks like an explosion on the plate. I don’t think our theme was ‘Downtown Damascus’ was it, Matt?”

Matt: “No and, my god, and I think she’s used every utensil in the house to make the dish. It’s actually quite impressive really.”

Gary: “I’ll give her points for not over cooking the noodles but that’s about all. I mean, tuna and marmite. That’s bold.”

George (gagging slightly): “A real statement.”

Don’t get me wrong – I love delicious food. And if you’re ever in the kitchen with me, you can ask me to chop a carrot or an onion but please just don’t ask me to cook it.