I’m not much given to the kind of weepy self-loathing I saw on ‘Extreme Makeovers’ this evening. Occasionally I slip into the delusion that I am fairly fit, and that I could be ready to run a marathon within a few weeks. I would prefer to have the choice of shaving off my hair, and I guess being a little taller would help me to reach the wines on the top shelf at the supermarket…

Inwardly I do get somewhat stunned at the way I feel like a piece of driftwood, sometimes bobbing idly in a calm pool, sometimes practically submerged in a powerful deluge, rootless and unable to pull myself out.

I reckon that if you feel your teeth need braces, or you need to have some part of your body modified in order to establish some security with yourself, then go for it. Life is too short to hate the way you look. But do it for you. Not for the bully that used to tease you at school, or the husband/wife/girl/boyfriend that undermines the way you are.

I look at the yawning chasm between where I am and my dreams, and I get disheartened. Fundamentally, my life is pretty good, I love my wife and children, and I usually enjoy work. But.

So that you know:

My dream is to be involved full-time in ministry in the church. Not just preaching, not just counseling, but to be useful in social ministries, and to (ha!) help others to achieve the full potential of God’s calling on their lives. I would love writing to be a part of that somehow, and I want those things so much that it makes dealing with the very-different present hard sometimes.

So if I want those things, you may or may not be asking, what am I doing to get there? Well, I pray. I do my best in the areas in which I am involved, and I try to keep the hope fresh and alive.

Please understand that it is a privilege for me to feel this way at all. I was a highly unlikely candidate for church life, as a crazy unstable youth, and it is only the grace of God that has brought me literally out of the gutter and into a ‘normal’ life.

I wish that those unhappy ‘extreme makeover’ people could have a glimpse of the God I know, that they could see themselves as He sees them, that with all their flaws and bumps, and yes, even sins and inward imperfections, He loves them. To go from having a physically flawed face, to having a face acceptable to society and yet to maintain the inner corruption is nothing short of tragic.

Before you beat me with your laptops, I myself have undergone the ultimate in Extreme inward makeovers. Daily I submit myself to ‘the surgeon’s’ knife, and yet I am not afraid of Him slipping up. You yourselves have been witnesses to my imperfections, and yet I hope you share in my hope that in all these things, there has been a purpose.

I like to think that if who I am now walked past who I was then in the street, I wouldn’t cross over, but that I would have compassion. If I missed some important time in your lives, or if I missed the point, I hope you will understand that for me it is a real honour to be able to share in your ups and downs.

Mostly, you have left fun encouraging things as comments, but I invite you to help me to grow up. If I hurt your feelings, or if I assume things, let me know.

I wrote in the top left-hand corner that I think life is ‘inherently funny’. I know it’s not. I have seen some of you wrestling with incredible difficulties, and I am so impressed with your fortitude. I do hope to bring some more smiles as I reveal my imperfections, kind of like the opposite of a makeover: a makeunder. Hey! I look fine at first glance, but look under my carpets! For me, humour is one of the tools He uses to help me not to take things too seriously. Plus, sometimes, I am an idiot.

My children and my wife and friends all shine the torch on my inadequacies, but they also help me to turn them around.

I guess after all that introspection/selfish gibbering, I could ask you, what areas would you like to change? A physical thing? An inner thing? Don’t worry: Nothing is impossible for God. Right?

From a child who used to think that the word for a single piece of cheese was ‘a chee’, came a high-octane day of lego, wire jewellery making and the ubiquitous barbecue. He drew dragons breathing fire, flying dragons, multicoloured dragons and baby dragons. (Catch the theme?)

From his sister, whom Neen has convinced me NOT to call ‘Hannorexia’ (don’t worry, I’m not that insensitive), foodstuffs requested and not consumed today only included: banana, apple, biscuits (4 times), pancake, toast, meat, sausage, (ie, soddit on de flate), rooibos tea, numerous containers of different flavours of juice, chips, and onion. Things she ate: one small bowl of fruit loops, a raisin she found outside in the garden (please, Lord, let it be a raisin), a piece of roll and a few chips.

(If you are looking for a good laugh, then when your two-year-old asks for lemon, give them some. As Charles Schultz used to put it, ‘BLEEEUUGH’)

Despite, as Neen was trying to remind James today, Jesus protecting us, we have put in an alarm system. If an ant so much as suffers from flatulence in our house, buff guys with close-set eyes and itchy trigger fingers will surround our property. We don’t have much left worth protecting, but at least the human occupants of our house will be safe. Now we just have to remember the codes…

Tomorrow we are descending on the cinema with cousin and aunt (Neen’s sister and my niece, Rhiannon), for a happy morning of the Winnie the Pooh Heffalump movie. As riveting as this proposes to be, I am hoping for some me-time myself  later on. It’s a holiday weekend in South Africa, (Four days, Easter) so I am wearing a t-shirt which I wouldn’t wear out, and, and this is a big deal for me, I’m not wearing socks. Or shoes. Yup, here I sit, feet on carpet, not a care in the world. I guess I feel more secure with socks on, no big deal. Ok, so I have some feet issues, but they are my issues.

So, no socks; I am relaxed. No way I can follow either the ‘fight or flee’ impulse unshod. Obviously I was wearing heavy boots whilst tossing slabs of meat onto the fire, but now that all the chores are done, I sit. Aaaaaah. Thumbs-a-twiddle.

Hope your weekends are also peaceful, and that none of you are kidnapped and forced to watch Jerry Springer re-runs.

Sho-be-do, la la la. Pom pom pom. Humming to myself…

If you look on the side of most toys these days, you will find, in differing size according to country, a disclaimer, saying something along the lines of ‘Not Suitable For Children Under 3 Years of Age’. Occasionally, they may add ‘WARNING! CHOKING HAZARD!’

With a first child, you obediently pass over these when birthdays come around. You try and estimate the size-of-mouth-to-toy ratio, and sadly put all the exciting stuff back on the shelf. You rest assured in the knowledge that your beloved toddler is playing securely with toys in PRIMARY COLOURS the size of his/her head.

Depending on the age gap you choose/that ‘happens’ between siblings, something shifts in your thinking. Suddenly, your new baby is allowed to play with marbles/matches/tiny farmyard animals, and to heck with the risks. Even if you could delineate their toys, without the ‘MIIIIINE! I was playing with that!’ mantra, by now you have realized that children are built to be robust. You want them to be more independent, and even if that involves losing the occasional body part to machinery, at least you will have twenty seconds to yourself…

I do feel vaguely guilty as I hand over these instruments of potential mayhem, but often I look at the toys labeled hazardous and wonder why they exist, as the only appeal they could possibly have is to someone younger than three anyway. By the age of four, most children would regard those things with scorn.

Apart from that, on medicine bottles there are numerous caveats about the negative effects of mixing said medicines with alcohol. Fair enough.

Why doesn’t it say something similar on our alcoholic beverage bottles? ‘Warning, may cause drowsiness and acts of stupidity to be regretted tomorrow…’ or ‘warning: do not mix fifteen of these beers with one teaspoonful of medicine, as permanent liver damage may result’. Were drug companies getting sued for people crashing heavy machinery under the influence of two flu pills? Why weren’t people suing the booze companies?

I’m thinking there may be a tort in all this, and not the ‘tort’ that Tweetie Pie says to Sylvester. Hey, vineyard guys, you made me stupid, and then I  made a fool of myself while under the fiendish influence of YOUR product…

This has nothing to do with Easter. For those of you who celebrate it, have a wonderful day, but remember, Easter is about the rest of the year, too. For those of you who don’t celebrate Easter, have a great weekend, and have some chocolate egg anyway. (We Christians slip subliminal messages into the chocolate…heh heh heh.).

If you live in our neighbourhood, and you happen to be going for an evening stroll, you may hear the weak clanging of a bell, followed by four strained voices crying ‘Unclean, unclean…’ We are all exhibiting varying degrees of plague, ranging from listlessness to dayglo noses. Fortunately we haven’t reached the suppurating sores bit yet, but it is probably a matter of time.

Last night, after I had worked until 10 pm (stupid new night shift that I have to do once a week) I came home, and collapsed into my son’s uncomfortable bed, as he was wheezing and snoring on my side of my bed. In the middle of the night, Neen attempted to wake me, saying that there was a dripping sound in our ceiling. I mumbled that we had no torch with batteries, and my stumbling around in the dark wouldn’t solve anything.

An explorative climb this morning proved that yes, our water geyser is leaking, and requires the services of a plumber. We have still to pay the plumber who charged 10% of my salary to change a washer, so we’ll have to wait. The bathroom ceiling is starting to crack and sag like failed silicon implants. I don’t really react to any more crummy things, as the year has presented so many of them already. Compared to a broken pressure valve, there have been far more serious things.

Like who is signing the Kyoto Protocol, and learning how to male mini garlic bread on a barbecue.

How do children manage to do the whole tiny-Tim-on-his-deathbed thing, causing you to dash to the emergency room/visit your very expensive paediatrician and then wake up the following day jumping around like Richard Branson on a caffeine high?

So. The list of Challenges and Possible Threats to Blood Pressure grows and grows. In two weeks, I have had to change jobs, been burgled, had a sick family, a broken water geyser, a dying computer, and…and…

Oh yes, even as I speak I am covered in blood.

Green blood. First, I had to fulfill my (unwanted) role as cockroach killer when a skanky beast the size of my index finger was browsing in our groceries cupboard, and then, before the tiny screams had even had a chance to die away, Neen pointed to a huge cricket not much smaller than said roach. Because of the heat, there has been a plague of the things. They sing, and not like Michael Buble, and chirrup, and have an unnerving way of leaping out at you as you walk past.

Plagues of insects, illness, loss of all personally valuable things, a drought which has killed my garden and is likely to push up the price of wine… Seeing a pattern?

Despite all these things, I am grateful that my family is with me, that we are all alive. I am not regretting another year. I am almost getting to the stage when I am learning things about myself through all these challenges. Fear not! I am on a journey, and although I may be camping next to a dumpsite, I believe that a beautiful wilderness awaits. Why do they say ‘untamed wilderness’ like it’s a good thing? I prefer tamed wilderness, thank you.

It could have been worse: We spent the morning walking on the beach, building elaborate sand-castles and finding speckled crab carcasses at the drift line on the beach. We came home with the friends we had walked on the beach with, and then went to their house to burn some meat.

The day was filled with laughter, conversation and shared joy. I’ll take more of those. James was a bit sick and listless, but he’ll probably bounce back tomorrow.

My new job isn’t too bad either. I work at a bookshop at the most visited tourist destination in the country. At lunch I can sit on a small beach and watch the waves pulsing onto the shore, Robben Island in the hazy distance like a fantasy world suspended in the mist. The shop is busy, and I have been getting on with all the staff. Robben Island was the infamous site of the prison, home to that most famous of political prisoners, Nelson Mandela.

The evil that put him there still exists, covertly now, but NM has charmed the world with his statesmanship, his insistence on peace and his humour. I would not have left prison with the words forgiveness and peace on my lips. Our hero.

On the ‘Bears’ documentary we watched yesterday, we saw one particular kind of bear that, after having its young, keeps them in a cave for five months. Don’t bears suffer from Post Natal Depression? Five months? They don’t bundle them into little strollers, and parade them around Ursine shopping malls, for other mommy bears to ‘Ooh and aaah’ over their bows and rosy cheeks. None of that having the in-laws over to whisper curses of outdated advice, or whoring them to ‘Fuzzy Baby of the Year’ competitions.

Five months. No toys. No distractions of any sort. And yet that is the standard rearing technique. And those are bear-time months. If it were humans, an equivalent time would be eighteen months…

If you go down to the woods today,

You’re in for a big surprise

If you go down to the woods today,

You’d better go in disguise

For every bear that ever there was,

Is on the couch because, because

Today’s the day, the bears are having their cubhood traumas resolved…

Of course, during all this, the daddy bears are off drinking bear-beer with their bear-bear buddies, and doing sophisticated things like rummaging in trash cans.

I bet they tell lots of jokes, using the pun ‘bare’ as the punchline, too. The point is, I guess, that life may not be fantastic at the moment, but at least we’re not holed up in a dank cave with a litter of boisterous cubs, and no cleaning products.

In case I suddenly vanish, here are the Secrets you’ve been searching for…

(Today I was trying to connect the speakers to our PC so that I could listen to a song my friend Lyly was thoughtful enough to mail me. For some reason our computer, the Alzheimer 5000 (The one with the diminishing memory) wouldn’t start again. I tried endlessly to get it started. I took the cover off and tapped helplessly at dusty wires, but not being technically minded, that didn’t help. Finally, I replaced the cover, sat in shock. Could this be the last straw? Could I take another disappointment? I was nearly in tears, as I absent-mindedly tried the ‘on’ switch again. It worked….)

So. If I do a David Blaine, and you don’t hear from me, I have (a) been stolen, (b) need a new hard drive or (c) been committed for hitting inanimate objects.

We relaxed in front of the TV.  There was a riveting (me), or boring (Neen) documentary on Bears of the World on. I had cooked, ok, made some noodles for James and Hannah- although as a grab at cuisine I opened a can of mussels, and garnished their plates with them. Usually they love them. Tonight, they ate around them, until I asked, ‘James, do you like your mussels?’ He looked at me, and then did that universal bicep flex. Twit.

Later on, he and Hannah had a food fight, which was only slightly less entertaining than young male bears marking their territory, and mussels ended up everywhere. I was too tired to intervene, and it was with some despondence that I picked up the stray shellfish from the carpet. In fact, they bickered endlessly today. Sigh. Tomorrow is a public holiday in South Africa, so we aim to go to the beach first thing in the morning. Today in church we prayed for rain to end the drought, and…. By evening it was already raining. Not bad, eh?

Course it may scupper the beach thing, in which case we will make Lego thingies until our hands bleed.

So, Lyly, even if our e-mail hadn’t eaten your attachment as some potential threat (nearly as paranoid as me), I wouldn’t be able to listen to the song. I’m too afraid to do anything to the computer other than whisper in soothing tones, so I’ll just have to torture the family by playing the guitar. Neen nearly choked the other night when I, as a joke, sang the line “I’m not the world’s most physical guy” from ‘Lola’.

Sometimes you don’t appreciate things till they’re gone. Like cds…and hair.

Oh yes, those secrets. My waist size is 32, I once killed a frog, and I never want to be a wax effigy at Madame Tussauds.

Ever read a book that spoils reading books for you? I am reading an absolutely brilliant novel at the moment. Trouble is, I won’t, though not for lack of trying, be able to find a better one this year. I won’t be able to think, heck, I could do that anymore, or at least for a while, and I will have to raise the bar with my own writing. She makes me feel like a comical foreigner, who inadvertently butchers the language.

TaDa! The book is ‘The Centre of Winter’ by Marya Hornbacher. She wrote a powerful autobiography some time back, but this novel is luminous! Marvellous! Insightful! Superb…

It is about a family coping with the suicide of the father, written from the perspectives of the precocious six-year-old daughter, the mentally ill twelve-year-old son and the mother. The author has an amazing ability to pare away all words that get in the way. My favourite line so far: ‘What can you say of a man like that? He drank.’ (The daughter revealing her father’s alcoholism).

Read it. If you enjoyed ‘The Poisonwood Bible’ by Barbara Kingsolver, you’ll love this.

Stupid good writing.

Right now, the other way I enjoy language is when my children get inventive with it. The way Hannah can create subtle nuances that seem oddly correct. The way a child’s logic makes me rethink the way we communicate.

James caught the thread quite quickly when we were explaining what a vegetarian is. He muddled it a bit, but for the next few days, he was saying that someone who doesn’t eat cheese is a ‘cheesarian’, and olives: an ‘olivarian’. I didn’t correct him and say that those would be people who only ate those things, I just let him gave fun.

Does it mean you are drinking too much when your two year old asks you if you want a glass of wine with your supper?

Did I have one anyway?

Does Donald Trump need an extreme makeover?

According to James, the burglars who infiltrated our lives on Tuesday were crazed cartoon characters. We have passed that information on to the investigating officer, but I suspect he has an unnatural bias towards real people.

James reckons that they were wearing masks, and I can only assume that they wore striped shirts, had designer stubble, and carried sacks labeled ‘swag’. He is terribly upset that they came through his window, and immediately suspected them of swiping his red plush dog. They were invasive and intrusive, but they were innocent of that particular accusation. Dog turned up.

They were guilty of stealing his favourite music, which at the moment is apparently ‘Here I am to Worship’, and the Joan Armatrading song ‘All the Way From America’. They left a cd cleaning kit, which was ironic, given our lack of music and Hi-fi.

They stole juice and yoghurt from the fridge, and the collection of Easter eggs Neen had prudently bought before the Easter rush.

Masked fiends with a sense of irony.

Easy Job of the Year Award: Now that I am no longer a manager, I kind of wander around the shop aimlessly, picking up books and putting them down again, while my under-utilized brain congeals like overdone spaghetti. My new (apparently) boss came to me today and asked if I needed ‘I.T.’ time  I said no, I didn’t think so, but what was it…? She said that it is time set apart for us to sit down and read. At work. And get paid. To sit. And read. At work. Whooooohoooo!

I feel like an interesting stone that has been tumbled smooth by turbulent waters and various traumas. I lie there on the shore, snug amidst a host of identical pebbles, grey and purposeless. Can I get my edginess back?

I am no threat to anyone. Can’t I get a big flaw again? A rebellious crystal streak, a rakish chip on one shoulder? I want to be obedient to God, but yet I don’t want to dishonour Him by surrendering the character He has given me. I’ll wait for Him to stir things up…

In the meantime, I shall pick a brand new novel, crack that spine, and relax back on my beach. And get paid. Money. Anyone care to swap places?

P.S., If anyone can give me an idea to kick-start me writing a novel, I promise full credit on any published work. Maybe even a place to stay should you visit South Africa…

When I said that I don’t believe in the whole ‘what goes around, comes around’ philosophy I wasn’t joking.

Although sometimes life seems to take these bizarre turns that make me narrow my eyes and consider the quirkiness of it all. Remember late last year when we were burgled, and all the burglars took was three cds and a bottle of aftershave? Well My mum gave me gave me a voucher for music, which enabled me to buy three cds. All of which vanished, along with every other cd we own in today’s burglary.

Oh. They left my double Johnny Cash cd, again. But this time, they stole the hi-fi, so I’ll just have to close my eyes and remember what he sounds like.

Our house was completely trashed. There were holes on the wall where they pushed in the heavy stainless steel burglar bars. Every cupboard had been opened and emptied. They took weird stuff, like a carving knife and an extension cord, a clock radio, and the rechargers for our cell phones.

We don’t own anything of real value, and I am so glad that my family weren’t harmed, although they were rather shaken up. Neen took them all out to eat so that I could tidy up,

And, apart from James’s window, we’re back to normal. I put the razor wire back up, and sat down with a glass of wine…

I’m just trying to remember… Did I pray that I was bored at the beginning of the year? Did I ask God to shake things up? If so, I hereby, and officially, and even virtually, retract that prayer. I can’t believe that it is only March. We’ve been through so much already.

Deaths, horrible work situation and household violation and threat are about as much as I care to deal with.

But underlying everything, is the inescapable presence of God. I’ve been forced to pray far more than usual, and maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. You may think me mad for thinking in these terms, but essentially I am cornered to the point where I have to say back off, devil, you have no rights over me, my family or even my house.

If you would care to contribute some music to our musicless house, kindly suggest a favourite cd, and if the insurance pays out, we may even buy a copy…

In the meantime, Johnny Cash seems to rule!

At what age do our values make the switch from one structure to the next?

Recently Neen and I have been through some incredibly difficult challenges as a family. Today as I was on the couch (the couch in our lounge, as opposed to the psychiatrist’s battlefield) worrying about various issues, and important ones at that, about work, life’s purpose etc, I caught myself inadvertently ignoring my son. He was drawing, and chatting away, and I was mmm’ing absent-mindedly and not paying attention. He was absolutely riveted and thrilled by his ability to mix colours and create brown, and engrossed in the different effect other pencil crayons and crayons had.

(I had been drawing robot ants with him; I was just taking a break). There I was puzzling about existential issues, and there he was, deciding that pink was not a favourite colour. Sometimes we do wonderfully exciting trips with our children, and ask them afterwards what their favourite thing about the day was. More often than not, it is the seemingly least important segment of the day that leaves the greatest impression.

Go to beach? ‘I liked the dead seagull’.

Visit the Botanical Gardens? ‘I liked it when we saw the moon in the sky in the day’

Go to expensive restaurant? ‘I liked the onion rings’

I would be rhapsodizing about the crashing waves, the glorious flowers or the succulent steaks, so what makes us so different? We try to communicate, but why does it feel as though we are lacking a good translator?

Sometimes we go through issues as adults that we try to avoid letting James and Hannah hear about. They demand the truth. It is upsetting for them to see us cry, and difficult for us to articulate the truth in a child-friendly way. I could say that we are sad because a friend has died, and they are ‘Oh…. Can we play soccer now?’

They lack the sentimentality of adulthood. We expect them to miss us when we are not around, but give them something to occupy their minds and they are blissfully happy. Is this true joy? Is it fickle? Is it just being a child?

Me’n James

I’m so depressed (I like the red crayon too),

I would get dressed (Why bother, there are other things to do),

But I’ve nothing to wear (Who cares if clothes match, or if they’re new?)

Doesn’t anybody care? (I think I’ll paint… No wait, I’ll glue)

I’ve lost my job (Can I have a biscuit, can I?)

I’m such a slob (Can you make a sandwich with apple pie?)

I’ve just heard my friend is dead (Can I go outside?)

I’ll take to my bed (Then you count to ten, I’ll hide)

I got a raise! (Daaaad! I grazed my kneeeeee!)

Work really pays! (Look, there’s blood, can you see?)

I’m ill! Too ill to work (I’m not tired, really, I’m not)

I ache, everything seems to hurt (I’m cold, I’m hot, I’m cold I’m zzzz)

Thank you for indulging me.

Don’t you wish you could be innocent again?