A Book for my Daughter

A Book for my Daughter by Gerhard Groenewald Essays about random stuff. In-house critic and publisher: Anna Groenewald Copyright 1973 © Flippit – the home for turtles with adhd. All other rights reserved in favour of Karel the rain spider. Page | 1

Foreword This is the Foreword. Not to be confused with the Afterword. Or the Chapters. The Foreword is designed to lead you gently into the book itself. Lest you jump in feet first and find yourself completely out of your depth. First you need to realise that this is an actual book. Containing written stuff. No videos or emojis. And then there must be a map. Books of note have maps. Here is this book’s map. It is a map of Borneo. Page | 2

Please study the map carefully because it will not be mentioned again in this book. After the Foreword, and before the Afterword, you will find the Chapters. Which is where you will find the meat of the book. Naked people. Violence. Murders. State capture. And so on. This book is not intended to be autobiographical. There are parts of it that is, but anything relating to my life history that is left out is left out not because of its unimportance. Or because I regard people not mentioned as unimportant. Like Mieks. Or Jan. Or my Dad. All hugely important in my life. But this book contains random musings, not deliberate selections of stuff. So, if anyone reads this and finds him or her not mentioned, rest easy. You were not deliberately discarded. You will find that the left pages in this book are blank. That is so that you can scribble scathing comments on it. Or draw pictures of dogs. Or something. A Foreword should finish with a Dedication. I hereby dedicate this book as a 50th birthday gift to my dearest daughter Mieks. Her of my heart. Page | 3

Contents Mutterings about Growing Up.................................... 5 Varsity........................................................................... 10 To Camp or not to Camp .......................................... 14 Lenie.............................................................................. 18 Waking Up ................................................................... 22 The Lawyer................................................................... 28 Anna.............................................................................. 32 On Gender ................................................................... 35 Remarkable Women.................................................... 40 Sport.............................................................................. 44 Loadshedding............................................................... 48 Books I Remember ..................................................... 51 Saying Goodbye........................................................... 58 Page | 4

Mutterings about Growing Up School was kind of crap. I was, and still am, a nerd. Part of that was, I guess, due to my polio- fucked right foot. Which prevented me from taking part in sports. At least all sports that you could not participate in sitting down. But only part of my nerdiness can be blamed on a foot. To be a real nerd you must have nerdy genes. And I have them in spades. Not sure which parent passed them on, though. Mom and Dad were both middle-of-the- road practical people. Maybe, just maybe, I have an ancestor from the 1830’s or so who, rather than dash about madly fighting black people for their land, sat pensively under a tree chewing on a willow twig. Or whatever the nerdy thing was to do in those times. At school the nerd’s defence against the kids who seem to have an uncanny ability to spot the vulnerable one in their midst, is to withdraw from plain sight and find somewhere to hide. Somewhere where the ravenous hordes are unlikely to find you. Like the school library. Quiet, calm and, best of all, Page | 5

filled with books. Pure bliss. Most of my free time as a child was spent in a library. By the time I was 12, I had pretty much gone through all the books in the kid’s section of the town library. Mrs. Dean gave me access to the adult section and a new world opened up to me. Moving from Richmal Crompton and Enid Blyton and C.F.Beyers-Boshoff to Kurt Vonnegut and Roald Dahl……. And the Kama Sutra. At that age, that was heady stuff. I strutted around the schoolground with a smirk that said “Oh boy, if only you know what I know!”. It is telling that I did not have a friend with whom to share this juicy stuff. That was pretty much my situation through my entire life- no friends. It bothered me a lot at the time. Never invited to the parties. Always around the edges of the groups gathered on the playground during breaks. It stopped bothering me so much once I discovered books: there was always a refuge where I could forget that I was not part of the crowd. I also found that I was fascinated by chemistry. I wheedled a space in the laundry to put a small table and some shelves. Which I stocked with retorts, beakers, test tubes and all the paraphernalia to look Page | 6

like a mad scientist. White coat und al. Happiness was when I picked up an old Bunsen burner from the science master at school. I could now heat things and bubble and boil to my hearts content. This was my second away place, where none of the school peers could match me. But still, one needs some sort of validation; some recognition of yourself as yourself. Especially when you are wandering the winding path of youth. It does not help that you are academically good – that merely confirms your nerdiness. Two things happened that gave me some of the validation I craved. When I was 16, the Lichtenburg Ladies Reading Club invited me to join them. They met every Friday evening over cocktails and snacks to discuss that week’s book. And there I was, book in the hand, scarfing down dainty sandwiches and drinking orange juice. I hated orange juice but could never gather the courage to tell the host. The evenings were pure joy. I could actually give an opinion about the book, and the adults nodded sagely as I spoke. My membership of the LLRC lasted for a year and ended when two of the members passed away and the club disbanded. I was sad. But sort of validated. Page | 7

The second thing was more momentous and caused a minor breakthrough in my relationship, or lack thereof, with my peers. In standard 9 the local Rotary club entered me in a speech contest. I won. The prize was a 6 week visit to Rotarians in the Michigan, USA, that November. At the following Monday’s school hall gathering, the win and the prize was announced to the school. Jaws dropped. All the kids stared at me. I smiled modestly…. November came, and I left for Michigan. Johannesburg to Luanda to Las Palmas in the Canary Islands to Luxembourg to Reykjavik in Iceland to New York to Chicago. In Chicago I was picked up by the first host family. The next 5 weeks I spent going to school with the kids, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, throwing snowballs at passing cars, giving speeches about S.A. at Rotary Clubs and generally having a ball. I returned via the same circuitous route. Back at school the next year everything changed. I was, at last, part of the crowd. And got invited to parties. And I discovered that it all was not that meaningful. I still had no friends. I was still the same nerd and preferred the company of a book. My time in Michigan taught me that being myself is more important than doing stuff that I did Page | 8

not really like just to be part of the crowd. I always was and will always be a loner at heart. School ended in typical nerd fashion. I was nominated to give the speech at the prom- obvious choice, having won a prize and all you know….. The afternoon of the prom I stumbled over loose paving, fell, and cut my chin. Stood up to give my speech with seven stiches and a bandage. Memorable. I did get sloshed later but not, alas, kissed. Page | 9

Varsity Off I went to Pretoria to study for a B.Sc. in Industrial Chemistry, clutching an Eskom bursary. Room in a res, shared with a boring guy who just wanted to study. I, on the other hand, quickly met up with like minded youngsters. We were there to study, but a bit of fun on the side would surely do no harm, not so? We quickly formed a bridge club and played cards at all sorts of odd hours. Including times when we should have been studying. I attended all classes. And found half of the subjects interesting and the other half boring. First year for all B.Sc.’s was chemistry (), physics (), maths (), applied maths () and one other subject that I cannot remember. Other than attending classes, I played bridge. After two months of this, came the first round of tests and I suddenly had an epiphany: I had better start studying. And passing tests. Otherwise, my bursary could well be in danger of being withdrawn. In which event I would have to go home, hat in the hand, looking very much the fool that I was. So, I started studying flat out two weeks before the tests. Long hours and really giving all I Page | 10

had. The result? Chemistry 60’s, maths 40’s, applied maths 50’s and physics 60’s. That sucked big time. If I battled this much this early in the game, am I really suited to see it through? Should I study something else? But what about the bursary? Is there money in playing bridge? Difficult questions…. In the end I decided to wait for the half year tests, play less bridge and study more. Which is what I did. Results? Chemistry 80’s, maths 50’s, applied maths 50’s and physics 60’s. Something was clearly screwy here. I spoke to my study leader, to the guys at Eskom and decided to go home and talk to my Dad. Which I did, confessing all. He muttered darkly about the bridge. After mulling it over, he suggested that I should study something else. I had no idea what else to tackle, so he instructed me to go back to Tuks, drop all my courses and use the bursary to spend my time attending classes in other disciplines. I did a double take – that sounded good. Attend classes when and where I wanted to, write no tests, play bridge; I could live with that. So, back to varsity I went. And had a ball. At first, anyway. My bridge mates started taking their studies seriously and was not readily available for a hand or two. I fact, nobody was readily available for much. Boring. After a month or two I was fairly certain that I should switch to the law. And went back home. I Page | 11

was convinced that going back to Tuks for law would be a bad idea, given the temptations that would lurk there. I managed to get a bursary of sorts for Potch, Dad agreed to fund the balance and I spent the rest of the year working for the Post Office. In their telephone exchange- “number please, nommer asseblief”. Night shift to boot. It was pretty mind-numbing, but I felt that I owed Dad the effort to add something to the pot for the next year. Off to the Potchefstroom University for Christian Higher Education. Enrolled for a B.Iur et Art- a three year law degree with which one could enter articles with an attorney for 2 years. Or add 2 or more years to get an LL.B with which one could enter articles with a attorney for 2 years. Or become an advocate. This time around I was serious – no bridge playing. Me be a Student for real. There were no bridge players around, allowing me ample free time to pursue other non-academic interests. Such as joining an amateur acting group, Thalia. She was the Greek goddess of comedy and also, further research disclosed, a goddess of fertility. Somehow I do not think the varsity knew that…. The troupe toured the country every July, towed around in two railroad carriages by the then SAR&H. This was where I met Lenie. On stage right……. Page | 12

I left Potch 3 years later, my law degree in one hand. And Lenie in the other. Page | 13

To Camp or not to Camp That is not a question that many people ponder. Or that you read about in the newspapers. And that is a sad thing. Humanity would be far better off if it spent more time considering this weighty subject, rather than blathering on about the economy and climate change. I am considering the creation of FUC – Friends United against Camping. The possibilities are endless- we could stand in the next election on a platform that has at its core the belief that camping is a terrible thing that was dumped on us by the colonial powers. Yes, folks, Britain is once more at blame. And they should come to the party with reparations to undo the damage that their thoughtless and selfish actions caused. You think that I exaggerate? Not so. I myself suffer from PCS – Post Camping Syndrome, caused mainly by the last time I was forced to camp. How, I can hear you ask, can anyone be forced to camp. Hah! Here is the sequence of events that led to that Page | 14

eventful weekend: Anna: “Remember that we are going to Brits in two weeks’ time for Magda’s birthday.” Me: “Sure. How could I forget.” Anna: “The party starts on Saturday and we’ll fly back on Sunday. Or Monday.” Me: “No problem – book the tickets.” So there I was, innocently looking forward to a birthday party and meeting up with all the family. Lamb being led to slaughter comes to mind. The weekend came and we went. Rented a car and drove to Brits. Or rather, right past Brits. To a place signposted as a holiday resort. Next to a river. I stopped the car, stretched and looked around. Tents all over the show. Nary a cabin or rondawel in sight. “O fuck, I am fucked” I thought, but kept smiling as we met up with the family. As soon as I could, I asked Anna “En waar gaan ons twee slaap?” She pointed at a tent. Or rather an object that could only, with a stretch of the imagination, be referred to as a tent. It looked like a plastic igloo. My spirit sank.. But, being a brave person, I rallied and went looking for alcohol. Fires were lit and amidst the conviviality, someone handed me an air pump. To be used, so I was told, to pump up the mattress. Shocked, I trundled off to Page | 15

the igloo, unloaded our luggage, and contemplated the plastic thingy that we were apparently going to sleep on. Nowt else to do put inflate the bloody thing. And so I started. Jan phoned. “How goes it with you guys” he asked. “We are pumping.” I replied. Silence. “Ja well ok. Lekker kamp.” End of call. One would think that with the bed inflated and made, little else could go wrong. Not so. The night was awful. Neither Anna nor I could fall asleep and when we did, it was a shallow restless sleep. The next morning, we rose early and trundled off to have a shower. Feeling refreshed, I stepped out of the shower, only to be confronted by an angry woman. “What are you doing here?” she shouted, trying not to look at my nether regions. “Showering” I said. “But,” she retorted, clearly upset, “this is the woman’s shower. You must go next door” I lost that debate and slunked back to the igloo. I simply did not see the signs on the wall and just assumed… I actually don’t know what I assumed. Stupid. When Anna returned, giggling like a schoolgirl, we found the cause of our lack of sleep. Page | 16

The igloo was erected on a slight slope, and we laid down on the bed head downwards. Not good. Also, I had pumped the thing too vigorously and it was too hard. At least that is what the camping experts gathered around the site of the crime told us. I deflated the bed, and we had a great day celebrating Magda’s birthday. That night we slept right end up. Only thing is, I let too much air out of the bed. It was like lying on jelly. If any of us moved, the other one would jiggle and wobble. I considered venturing out to find a pump, but we decided against it and battled through the night. The next morning I went to the men’s side. While I brushed my teeth, a guy in a cubicle next to me farted and shat with great gusto. I left. That was my last camp. Long live FUC!. Page | 17

Lenie I met Lenie when I joined Thalia, the theatre club at PUK, in 1967. I auditioned for a role in that year’s play – “Saterdagaand 11:16” - and got the part of a professional wrestler! Mit beard and paunch strapped around my middle….. Lenie also got a part and we met during the rehearsals. We did not fall in love immediately. The touring group consisted of the 8 actors, about 12 stagehands and 12 hangers-on. During the 30 days tour the group spent a lot of time in each other’s company. Romances blossomed, and, since we slept on the train, there was plenty of opportunity for canoodling. Lenie and I were both on the outside of the bunk-jumping bunch and spent time together chatting about stuff. Studies, music, parents, how silly some of the others were (with, I think, a tinge of envy). Shortly after the tour, my roommate in res, Mac (now High Court Justice van der Merwe), invited me and a companion to join him and his girlfriend to a play in town. I asked Lenie and she agreed. Early that evening, Mac’s girlfriend bailed and Mac also backed out. He offered to lend me his car to take Lenie on the date. He had a red DKW. Peculiar vehicle- no Page | 18

clutch. You released the throttle to change gear. So, off I went, picked Lenie up and we did the theatre thing. And held hands – the first time we had any sort of romantic contact. Afterwards I drove to the Potch dam, a popular make-out spot. We made out. Later, when I tried to restart the DKW, it flatly refused. Would not turn over. Lenie could not drive, so we both pushed the car down the street, I jumped in, shoved the car into gear and tried to get it to start. Rinse and repeat 3 times before we got it going. What could have been a disaster for our burgeoning relationship turned out to bring us closer. After that evening, we were an item. And everyone knew it. We returned to the spot at the dam a few times after I got given a car by my Dad. Usually with a bottle of Old Brown Sherry….. (Never had to push the car, though). In the Afrikaans, Gereformeerde Kerk community we lived in in the 60’s, there was no such thing as just an exclusive relationship. If you were an item for longer than a few months, it was subtly made clear to you that you needed to move on to step 2 and get engaged. So that is what Lenie and I did. Not unwillingly, mind you. That dealt with, step 3 loomed- getting married. Lenie completed varsity one year before me, got a post as a translator at the Page | 19

Pretoria and off she went. Made for a pretty difficult last year involving a lot of travel to and fro. So, one year after I left varsity and also moved to Pretoria, we married and moved into a flat in Sunnyside. What followed was probably the most carefree 3 years of my life. We earned good money, had no debt, no worries, lived in a lively part of the city and were newly married. Of course, step 4 loomed……… We eventually bowed to the inevitable, and the two of us became the four of us. A different lifestyle with responsibilities suddenly becoming prime, but delightful, nevertheless. Married life is, I think, all about dealing with stuff. There were good times. There were great times. There were difficult times. Times when the demands of work, of being a husband, and of being a father were just too complex to juggle and stuff had to be prioritised. Not always in the right way, and there are lots of decisions that I now regret. Does not help much, though, to now look back and kick yourself. Not going to change a thing. I think you are in good shape if you get the majority of things sort of right. Which I hope I did. In the last 2 years with Lenie, my life was pretty much consumed with running the guest house and looking after her. I did not then, nor do I now complain in any way shape or form about having to Page | 20

care for Lenie. It was not her fault that she was bipolar – it was not her choice to gradually become more and more dependent and ill. Of course, it was not easy, but it had to be done. We came together because we loved each other. I never stopped loving her. Maybe not the same fierce love of earlier, but my love for her never died, even when she did. Page | 21

Waking Up After getting my law degree at Potch, I got a job with the Dept. of Justice as a junior state prosecutor at the Pretoria Magistrate’s court. Serendipitous as Lenie landed at the Pretoria Municipality as a translator. We initially lived in two bachelor’s apartments. Living together was frowned upon at the time and we conformed. Especially in view of the fact that 3 of Lenie’s brothers were dominees. We did not want to be the subject of a sermon or two….. My work entailed reading police dossiers and deciding whether a suspect was to be prosecuted or not. The dossiers were either passed to one of the senior prosecutors or returned to the police with a note stating “Nolle Prosequi” – not to be pursued. Basically boring office work as the dossiers that came my way were inevitably those for minor crimes. The exciting stuff like robbery, extortion, murder and so on was too important to be entrusted to a youngster like me. And so life continued. Until one fateful day. I was, for the first time, given the privilege of prosecuting actual cases in court. Minor offences, but still a step Page | 22

up from the bloody dossiers. To understand what transpired that day, I need to give you some background stuff. I grew up in Apartheid South Africa. We were taught the rules of Apartheid by our parents, the school, the churches, the politicians and the press. “How could we not at some point realise the inequity of the system” you ask. Because indoctrination works. Remember that we were not taught to hate non- whites. Just that they were different from us, a class below and needed us to guide and control them, otherwise they would be totally lost. Just the same way our parents cared for us. That paternalism was the bedrock of apartheid. Not hate or dislike, although that existed in patches, but paternalism. Of course, we has do quickly skate over the inexplicable parts of it. Like the Indians. They surely did not need looking after? Sure, but they were different people with their own culture who could look after themselves. We just did not want to intermingle with them. Too different, all the curries and stuff. Unless we wanted to buy things cheaply. Then off to the Indian shops we would go. Page | 23

Or the coloureds. Ag well, they are more civilised than the black people. Which is why they can be handled differently. So came the so-called tricameral parliament. Three chambers, one each for whites, Indians and coloureds. Each chamber would regulate affairs relating to its population group and jointly consider joint matters. Of course the white chamber had a numeric advantage and could never be outvoted by the others….. Or why we did not want to mix with other races in any way. On a park bench, in schools, at the counter of a shop, in restaurants, anywhere. At 9pm in towns across the country, a loud siren was set off at the police station. That was a signal that all non-white people had to be out of the white residential areas. Or get arrested and chucked in jail overnight. Unless they had written permission by a white person to stay late at work. The only race related crime a white person could get arrested for, is having sex with a black person. Both would get arrested and face potentially 5 years in prison (for the man- the woman faced 4 years! Probably on the assumption that the male is the seducer?). An interesting side note is that the prohibition was promulgated as the Immorality Act in 1926, when the Union of South Africa was still a Page | 24

dominion of the British Empire. Apartheid as such would only become a thing after 1948. Its roots, however, go back long before the National Party took control of Parliament in 1948. The blacks were stripped of their South African citizenship and assigned citizenship to one of the many so-called homelands where they could exercise political power. All black people had to carry an identity document outside their homeland- a so- called pass. If you got caught without a pass, you got arrested and given a hefty fine. Back to my first day in court., I was given the pass offences court. Big pile of dossiers detailing how and where the miscreants were caught without a pass. Stairs leading down to the police cells whence each accused would be brought up to face the might of the law. First accused was a 60 year old woman. I glanced briefly at the dossier and motioned to the policeman at the head of the stairs to bring her up to enter the dock. We would then let the magistrate know that we are ready to start. A small, thin black lady emerged, clutching half a pumpkin. I did a double take and asked her about the pumpkin. She told me that she went to the corner spaza shop a block from her house late the previous afternoon to Page | 25

buy a pumpkin for dinner. She forgot her pass at home and got arrested on her way back. It struck me like a thunderclap. This could not be right. No way. No how. This was so wrong it screamed at me. I had an epiphany, stood for what felt like an hour, but could only have been 5 minutes, took her dossier, scrawled “Nolle Prosequi” across it and across the dozen or so other others before me. The policemen stared. The clerk of the court stared. The I told the policeman to let her go and told her that she was free to go. I left the courtroom, went to the head prosecutor’s office and told him that I resigned with immediate effect. Amidst his questions and protestations, I collected my stuff from my office and walked away. The world around me had turned on its head. Suddenly I was questioning everything I had taken for granted. Questioning unquestioned beliefs and value systems. Fortunately, it was easy to share to my new view of life with Lenie, so harmony at home was retained. This did not mean that I suddenly became a radical form-at-the-mouth activist. Too many years of ingrained indoctrination kept me quiet. My outlook changed, but it was primarily inside of me. I did not have the courage or the inclination to Page | 26

become an outspoken protester against the regime, but nevertheless, I was profoundly changed. Page | 27

The Lawyer After a stint as a junior legal advisor at Pretoria Municipality (This is after I walked out as a prosecutor), I ended up as an articled clerk. First in Middelburg and then in Lichtenburg, where I had gone to school. An articled clerk is just a glorified secretary, assigned all the crappy stuff his principal does not feel like doing. Minor court cases, stacks of paperwork. For sure taking over the collections department. That is where you write nasty letters to people who fall behind on payments, issue summonses and make repayment arrangements and the like. Exciting stuff that sets the blood racing. Not. If you persevere through the two years of utter boredom, you can write an entrance exam, set by the Legal Practice Council. Pass this, and you are an attorney. Entitled to do all sorts of legal related stuff in exchange for money. I tried hanging up my shingle in Middelburg as a new practice, but it did not pan out well. I had no contacts in town. I should have thought it through and joined Rotary or the Knights of the Round Table or the local bridge club. Page | 28

Or something. No contacts = no clients. I stuck it out for a year, watching my overdraft increasing month by month, and then decided to call it a day. I found a position as a professional assistant with a Durban firm of attorneys, Berkowitz, Jacobs, Kirkel, Cohen, Moss-Morris and Greenberg. So, off to Durban we went. Me, Lenie, Jan and Mieks. who were all ecstatic at the thought of living in Durbs. In as far as the two young ones understood what was going on. They were generally pretty much ecstatic at everything that happened around them. We found a place to stay and I started work. One of the firm’s clients was an insurance company. I was assigned to deal with all motor accident claims that they accepted liability, paid the client and needed a decision whether there was a chance of claiming from the third party involved. They were pretty aggressive- if there was the slightest chance of getting money back, we were instructed to pursue the third party. Most third parties were in turn insured. As a result, many of my cases was against an attorney appointed by the opposing insurance company. Going to trial for a motor accident case was not a profitable operation for most attorneys. Settlement discussions were soon on the table. Page | 29

After a month or two I had a general strategy discussion with our client and suggested that we only settle completely hopeless cases. For the rest, we go to court, the idea being that we develop a hard-nosed reputation. The client agreed and I became a fighting opponent. The thing with car accidents is that, in court, it turns on eye-witness evidence. Which is the worst and most unreliable evidence of all. And the easiest to attack in court. Remember the video of the ballplayers and the gorilla? The strategy paid off. My opponents either caved in or settled at terms greatly advantageous to us. I would, just to keep the reputation going, every now and then go to court on marginal cases. I won more than I lost. It being Durbs, a few of us attorneys at court would often during court break for lunch set off to the beach, get into cossies and lay on the sand munching a burger. (Amazing wat can fit into an attorney’s briefcase!) At least, if you and your opponent are suntanning, you need not worry about the case restarting without you. Aahh those days….. The court cases were the enjoyable part of things. The rest was boring, and I got restless after two years. My Dad always said that, when one is dead certain that you do not enjoy what you are doing, you should forthwith stop doing it. And free yourself Page | 30

up to look around with a clear and focused mind for the next thing. One morning I rose and knew that I could not continue. I had a short chat with Lenie, went off to the office, walked into the morning partners meeting and resigned. Of course, they had questions and so on. Also they did not understand that I meant that I am leaving immediately. As in that day. I cleared all that up, reassured them that my work is up to date and that there are no court cases pending and I left the building. A feeling of relief suffused me. Freedom! Thank goodness, I was free again! Page | 31

Anna Anna came into my life shortly after Lenie died. I never contemplated nor desired a new relationship after she passed away. I loved Lenie up to the end. Love does die:- rather it morphs into something else when your loved one dies. It is not possible to still love a person who passed away in the same way. For me my love became a memory of love. Which is not the same thing at all. I think that Lenie’s long illness and bad prognosis caused her passing to be less of a shock than it would otherwise have been. I had time to prepare, mentally and emotionally and accepted the end, when it came, as the inevitable end I was expecting. I would not, I think, have been able to fall in love with Anna so soon had Lenie passed unexpectedly. I met Anna and fell in love with her. And I did not feel one iota of guilt that I did so soon after Lenie. I did not betray Lenie, I did not abandon anything; I simply fell in love. Keeping all the memories perfectly intact. And it gave me a second shot at happiness. Now, 17 years later, when I reflect back, there is absolutely nothing that I would do Page | 32

differently. I would still embrace the love Anna and I have for each other. Seventy odd, I would have said a few years ago, is at fucking old. At least. One is then surely an antie or an oom. One thing I know for sure- Anna will never be an antie. Antieness have to do with how you feel about life. If you reckon you've done everything and just hang around like a late fig:- Bam! You're an antie. That not be my Anna. Not so long as she loves reading and still dreams about the future. And there is always lots to dream about. Maybe the big stuff have been sorted, but many dreams remain; smaller dreams, but dreams nonetheless. Much of which revolves around being human, or rather being better human. And now she has built our house. After signing the contract for the sale of our shares in Mes Amis, the reality that we were soon to be homeless dawned on us. Anna sprang into action, as she does, and started looking for a property that would be our new home. Preferably a stand so that we could build a house to our liking. Whilst she searched, we started designing a house. Soon we had bought an empty stand and the actual building a house loomed. Up to that point it had been fun, but now it got serious. Page | 33

I am an algorithmic person, solving problems the way I write computer code. In a logical manner. Applying logic to the house building problem, it became quite clear that 1. It will be much cheaper if we do the owner- builder thing rather than contracting it and 2. There is no way on this dear earth that I will be anywhere near as good as Anna in being the actual builder. And so Anna became the builder, a task she attacked with gusto and enthusiasm. She had a bill of quantities drawn, employed an building foreman and assumed the task of making all purchases of all the building materials. I was relegated to gofer, assigned specific tasks from time to time. It all worked out splendidly. The house and garden were completed in record time at a cost of around 35% less that a contractor would have charged. That 35% is directly related to the amount of thought, effort and sweat Anna put into the House that Anna Built. Page | 34

On Gender It seems that one has to take account these days of the multiplicity of genders. LGBTQIA+ -lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer or questioning, intersex, asexual, and more. I have zero problems with people being weird. I have a lot of problems if they dictate that their weirdness impacts me. My first problem is the pronoun thing. I can accept, sort of, that you would not want to be referred to as him if you are not a him. But, if you are also not a her and therefore eschew both him and her, have a poll, hold a referendum and decide on a new pronoun. Such as “tat”, “qu”, “int”. Or something. But do not expropriate words that already have a meaning. Such as “they”. That is just silly. “They” is a plural pronoun that refers to more than one person. Irrespective of their gender. My logical min cannot handle this nonsense. The biggest problem with this relates to kids. It is fine to make decisions regarding your gender or supposed lack of gender when you are a young adult. You are hopefully then at an age when you can be sensible about things. And even if you are not, you Page | 35

are certainly old enough to bear the consequences. Young children, however, are in a whole different class. We do not allow kids to vote because they are not mature enough to make sensible choices. Yet they should be allowed to choose their gender and modify their bodies permanently? No, they should not undergo social transition before puberty onset. They are simply not in a position to make life- changing decisions that early in life. Some studies suggest that more than 50% of children do not persist in their new gender identity and need to transition back. An approach of watchful waiting seems to me to be the answer - observing the child's long-term gender identity development allows for a more informed decision-making process. Schools should, as far as possible, stay out of the fray. As with religion, parents should be the primary caregivers and advisors. Sure- not all parents are capable, but it is their responsibility then to get outside help. A schoolteacher should teach, not attempt to be a counsellor. I shudder to think of kids that end up being given puberty blockers because of influences at school. Page | 36

Why you should Velvet This may not be a question that has kept you awake at night. It is, nevertheless, an important question to deal with. How are you going to deal with a dear friend at a party who is clearly in agony and confidentially whispers to you: “Please help me. Do you think I should Velvet?” Would it not be great if you could answer confidently “Yes, Amelia, you should. Ignore what people say. Just be yourself and Velvet.”. Lucky that I am here to give you the skinny on that vexed question. So, here we go…. Velveting is a cooking technique that has been in use in China since the Qing Dynasty. Which took over from the Ming Dynasty in 1644. There were dynasties before the Qing: Zhou, Qin, Han, Xsin, Sui, Wendi, Tang, Gaozu, Liang, Song, Ming, but they were the last. You may well ask why all the prior lot did not velvet. Maybe they did so in secret because we have no record that they did. Be that as it Page | 37

may, the Velveters of Qing is whom we have evidence of. So, what is velveting? It is a technique used to prep cubes of meat for cooking. So, before you cook, you velvet. The final cooking method is irrelevant, as long as cubes or strips of meat is involved. Kebabs, stew, deep fried chicken or pork, curries, stir frying etc. etc. So maak mens: For every 100g of meat, mix 1 egg white and 1 tablespoon of corn starch well. You will know that it is well mixed when it feels snotty. Stir into the meat, covering each cube well. Leave for 30 minutes on the counter. Heat oil in a pot as for deep frying. Move the pieces one by one into a fresh bowl, letting as much of the batter drip off as you can. Then deep fry the meat for 30 seconds. Do not overcrowd the oil – do this in batches if you have a lot of meat. Put aside. Do not refrigerate- it will turn the starch into a hard layer. Which is not good. Your meat is now velveted and ready for however you intend cooking it. Page | 38

Putting starch on the outside of the meat will absorb some moisture that will be released when you later apply heat, resulting in moister meat. The corn starch is alkaline and slightly denatures the proteins on the outside in the meat making them softer. Whatever the science behind it, fact remains that velveting makes for a softer, moister end result. You may well find that people who velvet tend to be more pleasant and cheerful and easier to be with. As opposed to the velveting deniers. Who are, quite frankly, awful people. Or those who are yet to learn of it. They deserve our pity. When contemplating a new relationship, consider asking your prospective partner early on: “By the way, do you velvet?” Page | 39

Remarkable Women I have been fortunate to encounter some remarkable women on my journey through life. Three of those were my mothers: one biological and two stepmoms. All three have passed away and it is to those three I wish to pay homage. In no particular order. My mother, Ma Gracie was an old school lady who devoted her life to her husband and her children. And derived immense happiness for doing so. She was always involved with my Dad’s businesses in some way. As bookkeeper or the like, but never had any ambition for a career of her own. Me, my sis and my Dad were sufficient for her. Or at least that is what it looked like. I never discerned anything but contentedness. She was a cheerful person, not given to temperamental outbursts. When Jan and Mieks were added to her ambit, she was a pillar of strength. Without her, it would have been difficult to raise the two of them more or less successfully. So, we did not do too badly with them. I mean, they are not in jail or politics, are they? While I was growing up, she also looked after my grandma, a flighty old lady that refused to believe that she was sort of old. Page | 40

I was born on a farm in the Groot Marico, inherited by my Dad from my granddad. Not a big farm but located on the Marico River and serviced by a canal from the Marico dam. He grew tobacco, which was a high value crop. When I was 3 years old, I got polio. After the initial symptoms went away, I was left with a paralysed right foot. A testament to my mom’s dedication was her insistence that they sell the farm and move to Johannesburg where Dad could find a job in retail, and I could get daily care to minimise the long-term effects of the illness. We moved. My Dad found a job at the OK Bazaars and I got regular physio and exercises. Which resulted in curing the paralysis. I was left with a deformed right foot but could walk normally. More or less. All thanks to the sacrifices of my parents and the dedication of a remarkable woman, my mom. Lenie brought ma Marietjie into my life. She married late in life and found herself the mom of two boys and a girl from her husband’s previous marriage. They had three more kids, two boys and a girl, before her husband died. She was a qualified teacher and started teaching again. 6 kids to look after. All 6 graduated (3 became dominees, one a lawyer, one a teacher and Lenie a translator). We could never tell whether she shut down the possibility of a new Page | 41

relationship or whether having 6 kids made it difficult. Be that as it may, she remained single for the rest of her life. And remained a formidable woman in all the lives she touched. After Lenie passed and I met and fell in love with Anna, I procrastinated telling ma Marietjie about the new love in my life. So soon after Lenie? I did not want her to be hurt by my replacing, as it were, her daughter with someone new. Eventually I gathered mu courage and phoned her. She burst into tears. I felt like a heel….. Then, sniffling, she said that I should pardon her crying, but that she had been praying for 2 weeks that I would find a new woman and her tears were due to that prayer becoming true. Anna’s mom, ma Hetta was the third of my three moms. I met her, obviously, after I met Anna. I also met her second husband, oom Org, whom she married when she was 78. And he was 85. Ma Hetta had a tough life. Anna’s father had a heart attack in his early 40’s. They struggled financially – Anna had to leave teacher’s college to return home, find a job and help with the passle of siblings. Ma Hetta did not have an easy time raising the kids and working. She was, despite all that, one of life’s cheerful people- the last one to complain, the first one to be Page | 42

thankful for small things. It was a privilege to be part of her life and I carry many memories that I cherish. Page | 43

Sport Life in the time of prehistoric man was pretty hectic. Especially in daytime. While the women sheltered in the cave, chewing animal skins and feeding babies, the men were out there finding stuff to eat. Unfortunately, most animals of the time had either teeth or claws or both and were also out looking for lunch. As a result, much time was spent by the men running away from predators. In the process jumping over boulders and ravines and tossing stuff at the charging beasts. Spears, stones and so on. Eventually, having killed something for dinner, they would retire to the cave and spend the evening spitting and sharpening their spears. All that running about in ancient times has stayed with us humans and still is something that we do. Not in the sense of running for survival or hunting dinner, but as a sport. And here is my problem - There is sport and then there is stuff that is seen as sport but simply is not. To me the essence of sport is that it should build on something that is part of our humanity – something that is baked into our genes. Page | 44

Take athletics. Athletics events were depicted in the Ancient Egyptian tombs in Saqqara, with illustrations of running jumping appearing in tombs from as early as of 2250 BC. That is how old the records are that we have of humans still running. And that, to me, is the essence of what is a sport- it should have some relevance to ancient history. And athletics does- we did athletic stuff in prehistoric times for survival, and today we practise it as sport. This logic therefore dictates that the triple jump as sport is a no-no. Under what circumstances would homo erectus jump that way? Nee wat. Two other so-called sports that need to be exposed for the shams they are, are tennis and golf. Golf is not a sport. I shall repeat this for the sake of clarity. Golf is not a sport. It is a pastime, like playing snooker. Or lying on the beach. But a sport? Heavens no. It originated in the 1500’s in Scotland- practically yesterday on the time scales we use here for judging. It is an invention of modern man purely for his pleasure. And a silly invention it is too. Strike a ball with a stick. continue until you get the ball into a hole. Then repeat 18 times. What is the sense in that? I get that you are outdoors, in nature. Sort of. I get that you have companions. I get that you have a Page | 45

drink afterwards (heaven knows- you need it!). But why? Why do people get satisfaction from plopping a ball into a hole. How is that an accomplishment that should be respected? And rewarded? My mind boggles. Just watch a pro golfer on a hole. He will stride onto the green. And putt? No way. The green first gets scrutinised as if for a geological treatise. Crouching down, he peers minutely at the grass. He walks hither. And then yon. Eventually he takes up his stance and taps the ball. The crowd starts yelling at the ball to go into the hole. As if it has a mind of its own. Really silly stuff. I seem to be in the minority. There are apparently around 70 million golfers around the world. But then, according to the WHO, 35 million people worldwide are estimated to be affected by drug use disorders. I wonder how many of them play golf. Tennis is an even worse invention than golf. Let’s get the numbers out of the way – 87 million. Sadly, the affliction clearly stretches much wider than golf. Divide a level rectangle into two by stretching a net across it. Give two people a paddle each and get them to hit the ball to each other with the paddles. The one who hits the ball best wins in the end. And if you do it well enough, you end up earning millions. Page | 46

There is absolutely, unequivocally no sense in this. It is simply silly. Page | 47

Loadshedding We all hate loadshedding. It is a nuisance, a drag on our economy and affects the livelihood of many people. I believe that loadshedding will, in the medium term, prove to be a blessing. Here is my rationale: The transition from fossil fuels to renewable energy sources for electricity generation is challenging for all large Western economies. Fossil fuel industries have significant political influence due to their economic importance and employment opportunities. Large Western economies have energy-intensive industries, such as manufacturing and heavy industry, which rely on a stable and affordable energy supply. Finding solutions that can meet the energy demands of these industries while reducing carbon emissions is a significant challenge. Shifting to renewable energy sources requires significant investments in new infrastructure, such as renewable energy power plants, transmission lines, Page | 48

and storage systems. Upgrading and adapting the grid to accommodate intermittent renewable energy sources can be complex and expensive. The fossil fuel industry is simply so large and politically so powerful that there is a huge inertia that the renewables faction need to overcome to make a overtake fossil fuel electricity generation. In South Africa the situation is somewhat different. We do not have a properly working fossil fuel electricity system. We have a wonky Eskom that is simply unable to maintain its fleet of aging power generating plants. There is no scenario for a healthy electricity system in this country that features a fully functional Eskom as the main electricity supplier. We have no political or economical pressure holding us back from implementing renewable electricity plants. In fact, we have very real political and economic motives to move to renewables soon. Of course, not all our electricity can come from wind or solar plants – that supply is by definition weather- dependant and largely available in daytime. We still need a reliable constant supply from other sources. At least until reliable storage make an appearance. Hydro is pretty much out, leaving only coal and nuclear. But, given the current pressure for a Page | 49

solution, I am confident that we can move much faster than most Western nations. If we did not have a failing electricity system, with loadshedding as a result, the political and economic pressures would not have been on our side. Hence, loadshedding will prove to be a blessing. Page | 50