Coming Home

A car stands deserted next to the road.  Arthur slows down as he passes, squinting through the rivulets on the windscreen of his twenty-year-old Corolla.  The pelting July rain intensifies the darkness.  No movement from inside the other car.

The crumpled front fender gives the BMW’s headlight a manic frown.  Red paint bleeds across the rock face.  There’s no sign of the driver.  Is he concussed?  Has he stumbled over the edge?  Is he dead?

Arthur’s brain fumbles.  Is it my problem?  Must I take responsibility for this bastard?  All I did was answer my cellphone.  He didn’t need to overreact like that.  I had to take the call.  Louise was already stressing that I wasn’t home yet.

Arthur leans forward, the staccato rhythm of the wipers mimics his heartbeat.  How had he got into this mess?

It had started when Louise booked theatre tickets.  She knew that the weekly meetings often ran late, so why had she booked seats for a Monday?  Taking the kids out on a school night was bad enough, but why on the day when she knew he probably be late?

Then:  “Hey Arthur, will you take the minutes?”

“Sure boss, just need to call home to say I’ll be late.”

“Ja, whatever.”

Whatever.  Sure boss.  Ask Arthur, he’ll take on all the crappy jobs.  The little grey man who always gets passed over for promotion.  Eighteen years, and they don’t even know my wife’s name.

Louise.  Louise, whom I’ve loved since I was sixteen and she was fourteen.  We’ll have been married nineteen years this November.

Arthur smiled.  She never complained about the long hours, but he sensed her patience was wearing thin, especially when she had to cancel engagements because of him.

“ …even though there are green shoots, the current economic climate means that we must continue to level the playing fields for the man on the ground…”

It doesn’t make sense.  I’m working these extra hours to make a better life for my family; but all it’s doing is making everyone unhappy.

Arthur stopped writing and looked up.

“Sorry boss, I’ve got to go.  Someone else will have to carry on with the minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his chair back, picked up his briefcase, closed the door on the stunned meeting and walked out into the cold rain.

As he reached his car, his cellphone shrilled at him.

“Are you going to be much longer?”

“I’m sorry darling, I’m just leaving the office now.  I won’t be too long.”

He tucked the cellphone between his ear and his shoulder as he creaked open the car door, threw his briefcase onto the back seat and slid in behind the steering wheel.

“You’d better hurry.  If we’re late they won’t let us in till interval.”  He could hear her voice cracking.  Oh God, I hate it when she cries.

“I’m pulling out of the car park right now.  Oh shit, I just cut in front of a BMW.  He looks really pissed off.”  Arthur raised his hand in mute apology.  “Look Louise, I must go.  I’ll be there as soon as I can, OK?”

He pushed the red button on his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

He sighed, turned right at the traffic lights and looked in his rear view mirror.  Bloody BMW driver, right up my arse.  Arthur forced a smile and waved a ‘Sorry’ at the angry face in the car behind him.  He indicated and turned left onto the mountain pass.  The BMW followed and drew up beside him.  The driver leaned over the passenger seat, gesticulating and mouthing obscenities.  Even through the rain-spattered glass Arthur could see the artery pulsing on the guy’s temple, the tightness of the tendons in his neck.  His face was puce with rage.

Startled, Arthur veered to the left, his pulse quickening.  He almost overcorrected, but continued up the road, passing the gum trees and ‘For Sale’ signs, towards the corner which marked the start of the steep ascent.  Visibility was poor.  His headlights forged through the downpour and bounced off the shining tar, which had been smoothed by the rain to a black lake.  He dropped back to let the BMW pass, but it slowed down too, moving closer to Arthur, as though it were trying to push him off the road.  Arthur frowned as he rounded the bend and geared down for the ascent.  He moved onto the narrow shoulder, close to the barrier.

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Arthur floored the accelerator of his 1300cc Toyota.  Come on, come on, urged Arthur, leaning forward.  We’ve got to lose this maniac.  C’mon old girl, you can do it...  He glanced to his right and saw that he’d gained about a metre on the BMW.  The driver grinned at Arthur, but it looked more like a ghoulish grimace.  His teeth told of hours spent in the dentist’s chair: Godzilla with a Colgate smile.  This bastard’s a bully – he’s enjoying this!  Pitting his dream machine against my jalopy.

He slowed down and focused on the steep road ahead.  Despite the cold, he had to wipe sweat from his eyes.  He dried his hands on his faded corduroys and gripped the wheel with clammy hands. Don’t make eye contact. But now what?  There are five kilometres of bends ahead.  Nowhere I can pull in and get help.  What if this guy’s trying to kill me?

Arthur knew the road well.  He’d travelled it both ways for almost two decades, to and from  work.  Eighteen years of crappy holidays and eating out at the Spur.  Eighteen years of saving for the day he could move his family into a decent-sized home in a security village.  The kids would have their own rooms; Louise would have a garden and he would have a workshop.  His family would be safe.  Safe.  Safe from sicko’s like this.  Now this one guy was close to ruining it. No. No rich bastard is taking it away from me.

He steeled himself and prepared for the hairpin bend just ahead.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the BMW was inching slowly ahead of him.  What’s the bastard up to now?  Is he going to swerve left and ram me from the front, forcing me over the edge? Arthur looked in his rear view mirror.  No cars behind.  He slammed on the brakes, ready to pull up the handbrake at the first sign of a skid.  As the BMW shot past him, he saw the driver frown.  He could almost see the cogs turning in the guy’s brain as he tried to work out what to do next.

The BMW braked.  Its taillights turned the rain to rubies, bathing Arthur in a ruddy glow.  He watched it spin, a macabre pirouette.  Arthur’s brain captured the ballet frame by frame.  He watched mesmerised as the car met the mountainside sideways on, the wheels on the near side lifting and juddering back to earth.  Then nothing.

Serves him right.  Arthur took a deep breath and moved forward.  Past his nemesis.  The rain was heavier now, and Arthur knew he would have to concentrate really hard for the next few kilometres.  Blind corners, no streetlights, no hard shoulder.  Only the white line to help him get home to his family, in time for the theatre.

His breathing slowed and his brain took over where his instincts left off.

What if he’s injured? What if another car goes into him?  What if someone else is killed by that moron? Who will call the paramedics?

Arthur sighed.  Too many what ifs. I can’t do nothing.  I’d better go back.  Just in case. He turned his car around and made his way back through the darkness.

A dark shape looms ahead. Is that it?  Yes, there it is.

A car stands deserted next to the road.  Arthur slows down as he passes.  He cranes his neck, looking for a sign of life.

All he can hear is the rain.

He reaches for his cellphone and dials.

A moment.

“Hi darling.  There’s been a bit of an accident on the pass.  Nothing too serious.  I’m coming home.”

State of the Nation: Education

Sometime last century I did a degree through Unisa. We only had two lectures a year, so we formed study groups and scrounged old exam papers. We worked hard and were proud when we got a distinction.

This week I wrote two Theory of Literature papers. There have been no lectures and only one video conference with Pretoria. As usual we asked the professors what we could expect in exams. The reply was standard – just concentrate on your second assignment. We asked if there were any other areas we should focus on, and were told that they are not allowed to examine us on anything new.

I’m a bit thick, and this didn’t sink in. I went home and diligently revised the entire syllabus.

In the first exam over half the paper was taken directly from the assignment. So I know I did well.

But blow me down with a paper cut, the second paper was a direct crib of the assignment. I had a rant and was told by a fellow student that it’s been this way for a few years (her dad used to mark for Unisa).

So 120 ToL students are going into the wide world thinking they are Brilliant. And the professors? There’s no way they can feel a sense of accomplishment. They’re probably paging through the ‘Employment Offered’ section.

Retro Ray-Bans

I have endured much flak about my sunglasses. No matter how many times I’ve sat on them, dropped them or misplaced them, they just keep going. They’re so old, they’ve come back into fashion.
Mr Muffin was horrified when he saw them in Occhiali yesterday. Then he saw the price tag and had to sit down. He reckons the only reason they’re priced at R4,250 is that they really, really don’t want anyone to buy them.

55 Pilot Whales beached at Kommetjie

Started at 7.30 this morning.

No survivors.

Story and some pics here and here.

In other news, North Korea says it has carried out its second ever nuclear test.

“As with all marine mammals pilot whales are very sensitive to seismic disturbance” (Source: indymedia)

Are there any dots to join in this picture?

Just asking.

I’ve met the Black Dog.

The one that gnaws at my stomach, reminding me to worry: I’ve forgotten something; hurt someone with a thoughtless word; I’ll never complete what I’ve set out to do. It walks in my shadow all day, telling me there’s no point to it all, so why bother?

Sometimes it sleeps, releasing me into a place of laughter and escape. When I leave that sanctuary I turn and trip over it, bruising again.

I’ve found some pretty yellow pills that keep this hound at bay for a few hours. But he’s watching. Patient. Welcoming that yellow as his best friend, knowing they’re insidious traitors offering temporary, false relief from his attention.

The dog watches, lying in a corner with its head on its paws as I tackle new projects and meet new people to avoid its orange stare. It knows I’ll see it again when the novelty wears off, and I’m not surrounded by noise and friends and things to do. It’ll keep me company in the quiet of the pre-dawn, breathing its foul breath until I can sleep no more.

I see now that it’s always been there. I realise my mum had chained it up in a kennel out back, keeping me safe.

Do you think the SPCA will take it away if I ask very nicely?

Argus 2009 – it was a Breeze.

Mr Muffin was due to start his 20th Argus Cycle Tour one hour before me, so to while away the time before entering my starting chute I took refuge from the hurricane in a sleazy cafeteria. The type with greasy tables, cracked tiles and the sign that says ‘Credit only given to people over the age of 70 accompanied by both parents’.

The coffee was good though. As was the people-watching. A bepimpled teenager in cycling shorts and a pink tutu ordered and ate a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich with chips. I wondered if he would vomit on Hospital Bend or if he’d be able to hold it in until Wynberg Hill.

This chap needed directions to his chute. Must be related to kachasu with that dead animal getup.

He obviously found his way as the good folk at Cape Town Daily Photo discovered (bottom left).

On my way to the start I noticed that Bartholomew Diaz was rather smugly enjoying the post-dawn plight of lycra-clad windswept humans clinging desperately to their steeds.

That white thing in the background is Table Mountain.

About 600 of us were in the PB group. We should have set off at 8:48, but because so many riders in earlier groups were blown off their bikes in the Hertzog Boulevard windtunnel, our start was delayed to 9.37. Of the 73 start groups, only 2 made it through the first 100m without anyone crashing. Charming.

I spent six hours in the saddle looking for Matt Damon and Francois Pienaar. As did loads of poppies on the side of the road, with badly made signs saying “MATT DAMON! FREE MASSAGE HERE!! NO JOKES!!!!!!!!

Finally, the finish.

 And the beer tent. We call it Compost Corner. Because you just stand in one place and drink till you get vrot. Late Final, the best party band in Cape Town, was playing. Loudly. Thousands of shattered cyclists bopped, waved their beer bottles and sang along to Creedence, ZZ Top, Pink Floyd, Queen, Bruce Springsteen, Dire Straits and Katie Perry. They even sang Happy Birthday to Mr Muffin. 

The Good: The people in Cape Town are amazing. Despite seriously grotty weather, the roads were lined with spectators, cheering every passing cyclist. They were as sunburnt, windblown and exhausted as we were. But they were still there at three in the afternoon, drinking beer, smiling and waving tatty banners. Thank you.

The Bad: I can’t believe how many cyclists were listening to iPods and talking on cellphones while cycling in very dangerous conditions. Do they live in this world?

The Ugly: I have a cold sore on my kisser. I feel like Oprah on Botox. I make Mick Jagger look like a thin-lipped viper.

Next year? I’ll be back. Wouldn’t miss it.

Mr Muffin’s New Car

Mr Muffin has been looking for a ‘new’ car for months, but each one he sees has something wrong. Upholstery, colour, mileage, dings. All sound like girlie reasons not to close the deal.

Last week he found The One. It’s white. It’s an automatic. It puts him in the ‘old man’ league. I asked him what the clincher was.

With a big grin, he declares that it has this amazing new technology, kind of like a passenger mute function. I look to see what he’s going on about, and there it is, neatly nestled below the volume control: Airbag Off.

SA Blog Awards 2009

Thanks to Dolce for the prod – nominations are now open. There are loads of categories, and if you have no idea who is worthy of your vote, here are some of my favourites:

• Most Humorous (Witty, comical and written to induce uncontrollable laughter): Kyknoord, Peas on Toast
• Best Original Writing on a South African Blog
  (Composition, attention to detail, advanced levels of subject investigation): Mandy de Waal
• Best Post on a South African Blog (The one post which stood out in 2008): Naspers & the blood money
• Best Photographic Blog (Blogs featuring original photographic content): Cape Town Daily Photo, Jeanette Verster Photography
• Best Group Blog (Blogs with more than one author): Book Chat, One Long Minute
• Best Personal Blog (Diary type blogs of a personal lifestory nature): La Dolce Vita, Peas on Toast

If I have missed any worthy blogs, please show me the error of my ways.

You have until 14 March to cast your votes.

So? What are you waiting for? Click on the green tag and follow the destructions…

P.S. Rule 1 (Nominations) says: “You will be asked to give an honest reason for your nomination.” I couldn’t see where to put my reason, and my nominations were accepted. Anyone out there brighter than me who can point me in the right direction?

Ink

My reaction to tattoos is much like my reaction to caged tigers. An averse fascination. Or is it a fascinated aversion? Either way, I’m interested in the story behind its acquisition.

Muffin Manor is currently under invasion by Vikings. Two 19-year old nubile wenches from Sweden. Delightfully young and thin and firm and beautiful girls. I hate them both.

I had to find a flaw.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“Yes,” replied the siren related to me.

“Can I see it? I mean, is it in a place where I can see it without embarrassing myself?”

“Sure.”

She stands up and reveals the top of a very shapely tanned buttock.

Then I remember that her dad died four years ago. When she was fifteen.

And I weep. For this, the purest of love.

Anyone for Flame Grilled Chicken and Vegetable Medley?

Last July I speculated on the launch of new dog food flavours as the recession kicked in.

Husky Grill House - perfect accompaniment to a recession

 Late last year Purina took the gap and launched Husky Grill House. They’ve excelled themselves with their choice of Flame Grilled Chicken, Rump Steak, Lamb Cutlets or Tender Chicken, all served with a delicious Vegetable Medley.

Never mind the poor and the pensioners, the menu at Muffin Manor doesn’t extend to such exotica.

I’ll let you know if Mr Muffin notices the upward mobility of the supper department after I serve one of the above with basmati rice drizzled with seared caper jus.

Packing it up

It’s been quite interesting packing up mum’s home. She was a smoker, and the walls of the rooms where she spent most of her time have a deeper tinge of yellow than say, the bathroom.

Yesterday I took down the cuckoo clock. A gift to my dad on my return from a ‘Today’s Tuesday it must be Belgium’ Contiki Tour. It clanged and donged at me as I got entwined in its chains.

Mum got tired of it years ago when the cats kept getting tangled in the pine cones, so it’s hung quietly in her lounge ever since. It looks much the same as way back when, except the numerals are now a rather interesting shade of yellow.

   

In memory of both my folks, I put it up in my kitchen, pulled on the pine cones and moved the hands, remembering to allow the cuckoo to finish before moving on to the next half hour.

It was great to see the little door open and the cuckoo popping out. I enjoyed hearing the whirr of the mechanism as the bird prepared to give voice for the first time in years.

I counted each ‘cuckoo’ to make sure it was in sync with the hands. After 42 of them, I realised there was a problem. The poor thing has been breathing second-hand smoke for over a decade, and his insides are all gummed up. So I’ve put him out to pasture and renamed him the cucough clock.

R300 or 3 months

Right now, the latter seems a far more favourable option. 

I made a decision in November to concentrate on writing more.  And better.  Since then?  Nothing.  Nada.  A monumental case of writer’s block.  Going cheap ono.

So why would three months in jail be just right?

Firstly, Mr Muffin wouldn’t be able to drag me out of bed at 5am Every Morning to go cycling in preparation for that most significant of numbers, the 14th Argus Cycle Tour. 

I wouldn’t have to complete any more tax returns for clients who suffer from worse procrastination issues than I do.

My food intake would be curtailed to the extent that I may shed some of the 15kg that have surreptitiously invaded my body in the 5 years of Mr Muffin’s cohabitance.

And I will be able to write.  With pen/cil and paper. No interference from screens.  Cellphone, internet or television.

Ok, my sex life may take an unexpected detour, but I suppose that’s all part of the calling, right?

Woah. Just hold up!  Where’d this come from?

On 17 January I was stopped in Swellendam and fined for not carrying my driver’s licence.  And a nog ‘n fine for a trailer without a licence.  But that’s another story. 

Why I am in Swellendam on 17 January?

We (me and my mum) planned to go on holiday 26 December, after the obligatory joint family Christmas dinner.  But mum wasn’t feeling so hot, so we decided to leave on the 28^th of December.  Which we did.  Mum was still feeling grim, so on 29 December, we went to the nice doctor in Port Alfred, who said that mum had pneumonia.  Bloody hell, she said, Where’d I get that from?  Two days later she exited stage left, on cue.  Lying on her bed in the place she loved most.  Kasouga.  Where she’d holidayed for almost 50 years.  She’d waited for Mr Muffin to arrive the day before.  All was good.

We did what she wanted, and cremated her.  Scattered her ashes at Kasouga, close to my dad’s ashes.  When’s too old to be an orphan?

Then we (me, Mr Muffin and two dogs) drove back to Cape Town on 10 January, listening to Anne Robinson’s ‘Memoirs of an Unfit Mother’ on CD.  It was my shift, and just outside Sedgefield I heard a tuk-tuk-tuk and looked at the dashboard.  The temperature gauge was hyperventilating.  So we stopped and filled the radiator with dog’s bowl and soda water.  This gave us three minutes of transport.

I feared the worst when the sound capitalised to TUK-TUK and refused to respond to any stimulation – mechanical, percussive or vocal. 

Mr Muffin had left his AA card at home, so used mum’s number when he called.

AA asked, “Is Ma Muffin with you?”

“Yes”

“Can we speak to her?”

“Um no. Now is not convenient”

Meaningful looks are exchanged.  Mr Muffin mouths, ‘Well, she’s here in spirit, what’s your problem?”

Oi.

The tow truck comes and we leave the car at the local garage among tut-tuts and sympathetic gestures.  We hire a sewing machine (Atos) to get us and the dogs back to Cape Town.  Only 480km.

Monday sees phone calls to insurance (Sorry for you.  Your car is 10 days past the warranty.  Serious.), and the church for memorial arrangements.  Cool, Friday 16 January is the day to celebrate mum’s life.

Meanwhile, car progress in Sedgefield is slow.  Pick a problem, and a new one says hello.  Each one adding R1,000 to the bill.

16 January comes and it’s awesome.  Perfect tribute to a life well lived.  And what’s more, cousin Matt has flown out from grey London for the party.  And he’s hooked.  On our weather, our mountain, our colours, our people, our sea, our penguins, our baboons, our biltong, our Pronutro.  Our South Africa. Amandla!

Same day, Sedgefield phones and says the car is ready.  So, at sparrow’s fart on Saturday 17 January, I bundle cousin Matt into the sewing machine and make him witness the sunrise over the Hottentots Holland.  He’s sleep-deprivingly gobsmacked. Seeing as we’re so close to Knysna, why not go and see the elephants?   So we experience elephant snot, as I walk with the tip of a very, very long nose in my upturned hand.  Take me God, I’m ready.

Later, I swop the sewing machine for a 10-year-17-day-old car.  Which now sounds like a John Deere.  And head back to Cape Town, stopping every 100 km to see if there’s enough oil.

Outside Swellendam, there’s a roadblock.  Cool!  Checking for drunk drivers and inter-provincial-pig-sickness.  I’ve done this before and can do it again, showing off to cousin Matt how sophisticated we are in Africa.

Lady cop asks to see my licence.  I can do that!  I know my temporary licence is still valid, and it’s always in my purse.  Unless I’ve empty my overloaded purse before the journey with cousin Matt.  Because it’s full of slips and invoices related to mum’s departure – which won’t be needed on a day trip, right?  Wrong.

R300 or 3 months.  That’s my choice.

So it’s a R300 fine plus a sorry-for-you jalopy, enforced early morning cycling and chronologically challenged clients. Or 3 months fully paid board and lodging.

Cheers, see you in May.

2008: Annus not so horribilis

January: Decided that being phoned on the beach on 3 January by clients whose VAT payments had bounced, sucked. So I gave up my business. Still a few clinging to the apron strings.

February: Played soccer with Flutts and clare. Still limping.

March: Did my 13th Argus Cycle Tour, marshalled, cycled and handed out medals to thousands of sweaty Two Oceans runners. All great experiences.

April: Built a set and did the lighting for a play.

May: Mr Muffin’s son returned from Italy on a Ducati. Much rejoicing.

June: Spent a day with mort. Still recovering from those chocolate bombs.

July: Discovered Diemersfontein chocolate pinotage and had a haircut.

August: Got the cooties, a granuloma and broke my arm. Dolce and LB came to see the play I directed. Nice quiet month.

September: Mrs Muffinex and her husband came to stay for two weeks. I like her. Really I do!

October: Semisweet and nossie came to Cape Town. More eating.

November: Had my 25th school reunion. Connected with my English teacher, and may be doing something theatrical with him next year.

December: Signed up to do Theory of Literature at Unisa next year, and UCT Summer School Creative Fiction Writing.

Conclusion: More laughter than tears. 8/10

My mother made me do it.

“What is a camel hair paintbrush made from?”

Mum was the only person who knew that the answer was squirrel hair. So we won the quiz.

My friend, Possum, and I dropped mum at home, and she asked us to come in for a celebratory drink. We said yes, what a good idea.

Four hours of red wine later saw us at 3am. On a Sunday night. Monday morning actually.

Possum and I decided it might be a good time to go home. As we turned into my street, I saw a battered car with one headlight cruising towards us.

“If you don’t mind,” I say to Possum, “I’d rather not open the garage now. Safe not sorry and all that, you know”

“Sure,” she says. “No problem.”

We look into the car as it passes. The driver is a woman. She ignores us.

“I don’t like this,” I say. “What is a woman doing cruising the suburbs at 3.30 on a Monday morning?”

“I don’t like this either. What should we do?” Possum knows that there have been several driveway hijackings in our area recently. Part of the modus operandi of the hijackers is to dispatch a scout who alerts the hijackers to residents arriving late at night. Who says the scout can’t be a woman?

So I ask Possum, “Do you mind if we follow her?”

“Absolutely not. I think it’s your duty.” (Possum’s visiting from America, and has forgotten how apathetic South Africans can be).

We turn around and start following the car. Possum writes down the registration number. The car is still cruising and goes though a stop street. By now, the driver must know we are following her. At the second house along, the car slows, and whoever is in the passenger seat throws something over the wall of one of the houses.

“Did you see that?” Possum’s eyes are wide.

“Yes. What was it?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses. “What shall we do?”

“Well, we must do something”. I look behind me, hoping to see a patrol vehicle. No luck.

“I’m not getting out of this car.”

“Me neither.”

We look at each other. Then I do what any civic-minded resident would do at 3.30am. I hoot. And I hoot some more.

Nothing happens.

“Now what?” Possum asks.

“We can’t just leave. I mean, what’s in that package? It could be drugs. Or a weapon. Maybe it’s a gun!”

I get out of the car, leaving the engine running. Just in case. Possum gets out too.

I ring the doorbell.

A man’s voice: “Hello?”

I move closer to the intercom, “I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, but a car has just driven past, and thrown something over your wall.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Dusty Muffin. I live around the corner. I saw this suspicious car with one headlight, and decided to follow it. Just in case. Then I saw something being thrown over your wall.”

A light comes on. I hear a door open, voices and footsteps. The gate opens. An elderly couple in glasses and pyjamas peer out. I start explaining and apologising again. Possum joins in.

Meanwhile, I’m rubbernecking, looking for the Object. I can’t see it.

The woman asks me, “Where did they throw it over the wall?”

Possum points and answers, “About there.”

And then I see it, caught in a bush.

Their morning newspaper.

A Christmas to Remember

It was quiet in the recreation room at the retirement village. Mr Beaton was doing his crossword and muttering to himself each time he had to look something up the dictionary. The television was on mute, and Mrs Goldsmith paged through last week’s People, looking up at the enthusiastic talk show host every now and then. If Alice listened carefully, she could hear the soft tick of the clock that the local Rotary Club had donated last year.

She sighed. She hadn’t heard from either of her children in over two months. Ben was so busy at his job in Cape Town, and Janet’s twins – her grandchildren – were enough to keep anybody busy full time.

I suppose I’ll spend Christmas here, just like I have for the last five years.

Alice thought back to Christmas the previous year.

I hope I don’t have to sit next to Mr Harrison at dinner. I hate the way food falls out of his mouth when he eats.

The roast chicken isn’t the same as turkey, but it’s tasty enough. The Christmas pudding is quite nice, but I hope the custard isn’t lumpy, like it was last time. Or am I thinking of the year before?

Alice frowned, trying to remember. The last few years merged into a blur of colour and sound. She looked up at the television, now showing an enthusiastic shopper mouthing about the virtues of her new furniture polish.

I wonder if those nice people from the dramatic society will put on a show for us again. What did they do last year? A bit from Christmas Carol? Or did they sing for us? Oh, I don’t know. Whatever they do, every Christmas just seems the same these days…

“Mrs Moss,” called Sister Joan from the doorway. “There’s a telephone call for you. I think it’s your daughter.”

“Oh, lovely. Ask her to hold on please. I’m coming as fast as I can.” Alice said as she reached for her walking stick.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Moss,” said Sister Joan, coming towards her,“I’ll bring it to you. We’ve got a nice new cordless phone now, remember?”

Alice smiled gratefully as she reached for the handset. It was difficult for her to walk, having twisted her ankle in a fall last week. Everyone had been so kind and helpful.

“Hello?”

“Hello mum, it’s me.”

“Hello darling. How lovely to hear your voice.”

“Good to hear you too. I’m so sorry I haven’t called. Things have been very tough with this recession, and Rob’s been retrenched. Jamie and Nicky go to crèche now, as I’ve had to find a job.” Her voice caught, and she stopped talking. Alice knew how Janet had been so proud of being a stay-at-home mom, and it broke her heart to hear Janet so distressed.

“I’m so sorry my darling. Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh mum, I don’t know. I feel so helpless. And how must the really poor people be coping? I just feel like we’re all going down a big, black hole.”

Alice was aware of her own tears welling up. If only there was some way she could help…

“I’ve got an idea, Janet,” she said. “Why don’t you sell my old writing desk? “You should be able to get about R2,000 for it.”

“Oh no, mum, I couldn’t. It’s part of my childhood. I’d never forgive myself.”

“Oh come on, dear. Don’t be silly. It’s just a couple of pieces of wood. Christmas is coming up, and it’ll give you a few extra rands to spoil the children.”

Alice tried to sound cheerful. The desk had been given to her by Tom when she’d turned 21. It was the only piece of furniture she’d kept after he’d died and she’d moved into the village.

“And besides,” she continued, “It’s what your dad would have wanted.”

“Thanks mum. I’d rather not sell it though. I’ll speak to Rob, and see what he says. He’s got an interview today. Maybe he’ll get the job, and we’ll be okay.”

“Talking of Christmas,” Alice said, “Will I see you this year, or are you going up to Rob’s parents in Pretoria again?”

“That’s actually why I phoned, mum. We can’t afford to go up this year, so I wanted to know if you’d like to come to us for Christmas Lunch?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful! I’d love to, thank you.”

“Right we’ll pick you up at 11.  See you next week. Bye, mum.”

“Bye-bye darling, and good luck.”

Alice didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was going to be a Christmas to remember after all.