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I will come apart in little pieces for you.
I will lie strewn among your books and papers and precious things.
I will lie with my eyes closed and my heart panting until you sit back and open your chest - break open your bones and your flesh and let me wrap myself inside you and mend that thing in you that aches.
Recent posts

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 1 Apr 2019, 23:01

Things that irritate the crap out of me (2019)

- Buffering...
- Washing and drying tiny bits of plastic before giving myself a hangnail trying to push them into an ecobrick bottle.
- Proudly handing over my first 2 ecobricks only to be told that one of the bottles is biodegradable.
- The little pictures printed on loo paper. Tiny purple clouds or bubbly blue hemorrhoids? Orange and yellow daisies or little puddles of pee?
- Where have all the center front gores gone? (See illustration for directions) Option A: R600 for a moist cleavage in nude or mauve. Option B: Cling-wrap.
- Boxed milk and tomato sauce bottles that won't empty to the last drop.
- The non-stop piddling sound of the neighbour's water feature. OMG just switch that prostate-challenged fountain off! You're not saving water with your dribbling hose.
- Having to defeather chicken pieces. Chicken has become so free range and organic that defeathering is an optional extra in the hack-it-to-bits process.
- A 'full brea…

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 4 Mar 2019, 14:25

I pick things up and put them in my pockets. Specially on beach walks and when I'm browsing other peoples flowerbeds. 
If I've taken my meds then the little treasures are unpacked into their appropriate pile of hoarded stuff when I get home.

But last week a 20cm metal chain with a one-wing tin pendant (or is it a tin one wing? It was one wing too many that day) got away from me.
It went from being lost at sea, found by my friend who handed it to me (Kondo-convert, she is) and I lost it again by suppertime. 
It survived a 30 degree Omo wash and got sucked into the outflow whizzy thing in the bottom of the washing machine. That machine screamed like someone else's cat in heat, thumped and died with a bellyful of teenagers underwear and several liters of grey water inside it.

An aside: have you noticed that Omo turns the water grey before you've added the washing to it? Some smart psychology there.

It took the rest of the laundry pile to absorb the water I let out of the machin…

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 7 Aug 2018, 20:32

The drought has taught me how to unblock the loo without a plunger, which is wonderful because I don't own one.
All non-flushable toilet cleaning equipment gives me the pip. 
The memory of toddlers chasing each other down the passage, one wearing my camisole, the other waving a damp loo brush about still surfaces uncomfortably from time to time.

Here's how it's done.
Once the initial calamity has subsided add a capful of whatever lubricant (bubble bath, shampoo, Domestos) you have at hand to the bowl.
All good Capetonians should have a bucket of water standing around waiting to be repurposed. This is it.
Lift the full bucket as high as you can (something to do with velocity or some such word) and aim the stream straight for the middle of the pan.
If you aim straight then the force of the water and slime you added will unblock your calamity. 
Tried and tested several times now by me.
If you miss just close the door. Place a rolled towel along the bottom of the door and try again tom…

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 22 Jun 2018, 23:23

Notes from the bottom of the handbag -
because this is where they collect, scratched on the back of till slips and traffic light flyers and sweetie wrappers.

I received a text this week. "Are you on Facebook? I couldn't find you. I thought you must be dead." 
I responded, "I am."

I accidentally come across massive gaps in my kids education now and then which convince me that they will never leave home. After the groceries had been unpacked I was told the 'foot pads' were on the dining room table. It took me a while to register the packet of sanitary towels wedged against the fruit bowl.

But wait there's more. The boys, their Gran and I are doing the 5km Foam Run in November. The boy and Gran are decidedly athletic and will giggle through 5km. The other boy and I foam at the mouth just shaking tomato sauce out of the bottle.
This week we started Training a la teenage boy standards. I might have to wrap myself in several watermelon vodka compresses afterwar…

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 18 Apr 2018, 11:07

Modern basins and baths have made the Gugurush extinct and I'm devastated. 
The Gugurush was the creature that lived down the plughole and made that sucking-gurgling throttle as the water funneled down the drain. 
Anyone older than 40 has at some point risked losing an appendage to the creature as we tried to change the direction of the swirling water. Others may just have peed down the funnel.
Modern sanitary ware, shallow, legless and pipeless, has ended one of the great dragons of my childhood.

Notes from the bottom of the handbag 13 Sep 2017, 22:00

Last week was rough.
I fell on the stairs and twisted my ankle. #idiotpain
Warning: the veg in our freezer is only used to treat injuries and fainting spells. Will poison vegetarians. Thomas has a beautiful bedside manner, even when he's limited to working with frozen mielies.

Then I realised that my car service, valet and licence would all have to be paid in the same week; next week!

Then the boy needed some fancy clobber for a fancy do that added up to R1500. And I wanted to cry. 

But then 💥🌞👨‍⚖️🌞💥 I won this year's silly court case with costs. Paid off everything. Booked a few days away just for me. And am deciding whether to give what's left to my accountant or to Unisa...

Saturday, raining

I've been sitting here, wrapped in a blanket, sans coffee, for 20 minutes trying to get a photo of the sweet little bird that has been visiting at my window all week. He spotted the sun damage and is stealing the rest the blind thread by thread.


Therapist: Have you ever stolen anything?
Man: A coin from a fountain.
Therapist: So... you stole someone's dream.
Man: It's my dream now.


A pigeon came into the kitchen to eat the dogs food.
It followed the light to the window instead of the door. It settled on the tap and from there threw itself against the window pane over and over again as if effort would change the outcome.

The dogs jumped at the cupboards and the boys, trying to help, found a bucket; unsure what to do with it.

When I took hold of the bird its wings were open and it resisted slightly as I folded them against its body. The flight feathers were hard in my palms and I felt its bird-bones, warm and white; the way I see them lie half-eaten on the lawn sometimes.

As my fingers closed over its breast, its heart beating higher up than I expected, it moulted.

Each short soft grey feather on its underbelly peeled out of its sheath, through my fingers and fell, still in rows and shields, into the sink.

We stood there, the bird, the boys, the dogs, and I until its heart had calmed.

Then we walked outside and it sat in my hand for a few seconds before it flew off.


Near heaven

You and I have lived running our hands along the veil,

comforted that no love is lost forever beyond our words.
Confident that it is not heaven that assigns us the past tense.

Miss Fitzpaine, by heart

Miss Fitzpaine brought her 5-year-old self to breakfast, newspaper under her arm in lieu of a dolly. She wore a little grin as she made her way past the gentlemen’s table. Oom Eric had positioned himself mid-aisle, knees bent and back precariously locked while he unpacked his pantry of jams, salt and sugar from the small basket attached to his walker. As Miss Fitzpaine passed him she stopped, drew back her newspaper and, with a perfectly coached tennis forehand, landed a shot on his rump.  'Spank you on the bottom,' she shrieked and muddled away as fast as her 82-year-old body would allow.The old men took their turns at her game every morning. Each of them had their limit of patience, depending on their being a gentleman or proximity to dementia.

I was introduced to Miss Fitzpaine for the first time at Sunday lunch; the only meal of the week that inspired residents into their shone shoes.  Chef had to make considerable extra effort turning mutton into lamb and frozen into fresh,…

Go away, moon

Go away, moon. 
There are no lovers here.

nagvissie 19 July 2011


'How much of human life is lost in waiting.'
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Broken Pane

The relief when the shattering is over.
Walking over the splinters and shards of the broken pane,
grinding, with small echoes, the initial shock underfoot.
All so easily referred to in the past tense from this position.