Across the world, from Australia to Hawaii, people are reaching deep into their psyche to examine the novel ‘The Da Vinci Code’. Now I may not be a famous novelist, nor am I an expert on the history of the catholic church. What I do know is that these are not new ideas. Dan Brown has simply threaded them together in his ‘compulsive’ storytelling way.

I tried to read ‘Angels and Demons’, the first in the series. I also thought I should give ‘The Da Vinci Code’ a go, since 30 million people have read the thing. I hated both of them. I could care less about secret societies and clandestine brotherhoods, and I am absolutely convinced that Jesus never even dated, never mind had a wife/sexual relationship. But fine, you are welcome to your opinions on those things.

What bothered me was his inability to write in a style more sophisticated than the ‘Hardy Boys’ novels I read as an eight-year-old. I am not a writing snob; I read all kinds of books, but I do draw the line at piercing blue eyes, and glistening whatevers. Had I not been reading a copy that belonged to the shop, I would have flung it from the train. Hopefully it would have become embedded in wet cement, and been dug up two thousand years from now as a relic to be chuckled over by a society more advanced than ours seems to be now.

Apparently, muddling the ancient mysteries of the Bible is easy, even for the very young. Hannah, aged two, just today was enlightening me as to the true nature of Jesus.

‘Jesus is died’ she said

‘And…?’ I prompted

‘He came alive in the water’

‘Yes…?’

He has hair’

‘What does he do?’

‘He came to spank everybody’

‘Eh? But Jesus loves everyone’

‘He came to spank…?

Me: ‘Nobody’

He came to spank… nobody… for touching the blinds. You mustn’t touch the blinds, and eat them’

‘Er, right’

‘The blinds can make you sick, and Noah eats beetles. Noah is hungry’

Noah is not just a historical figure, he is Hannah’s classmate at her daymom. Apparently he is something of an entomologist. Or Eat’em-all-agist.

So, Dan Brown, I eagerly await your new novel, based on the apparent will of the Lord to spank everyone, for touching the blinds. And the Dastardly parents who tried to keep this information from the world. They hide in suspiciously normal suburban homes, decorated with odd arcane symbols in crayon on the walls, at about knee-height. The truth is out there, and I mean Out There…

Man, I haven’t done one of these thingies for a while… Thanks, Jilbur.

1. What book would I like to be? Be a book? I guess the kind of book would be a crazy joy-ride of a book with a happy ending, as I can be very sentimental. But to answer the question, any of Roald Dahl children’s books. They are all filled with humour, dark twists, and underdogs overcoming adversity.
2. Have I ever had a crush on a fictional character? I reckon part of the sign of a good book is its ability to seduce you into personally involving yourself with the characters. Oddly, though, I am more drawn to stronger male characters, but not in the erotic sense. That said, remember ‘Janet and John’?  Did you see the way that girl could jump! Whooo-hooo! Also, the character ‘Bootsie’ in the James Lee Burke novels that is married to Robicheaux, but only because she dies tragically of Lupus.
3. What is the last book I bought? I get given book proofs and advance copies for work purposes, so if I buy a book it’s a really special occasion. The last one was a big book on rats, in preparation for the adoption of one into our household, from a second-hand bookstore.
4. What is the last book I read? ‘The Center of Winter’ by Marya Hornbacher. One of those where the characters are words that rise like Frankenpeople from the page, to live in one’s head for a while. Loved it!
5. What book am I currently reading? To diversify: a non-fiction title called ‘Blink’ by Malcolm Gladwell. It’s all about our ability as humans to make decisions in a split second. He debates whether or not our conscious or unconscious minds help us to decide our likes and dislikes, our preference for certain personality types over others… Very interesting, especially as I loathe decision making.
6. What five books would I take with me if I was stranded on a desert island? Back to fiction, as non-fiction would be harder to choose from many favourites. Here are some I would reread and reread until the glue disintegrated…The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I loved her evocation of the Congo in the sixties, and her ability to write in the different voices of her characters. The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings: A classic story of coming of age in the Florida everglades. Again, she created a brilliant sense of place. The Shipping News, by E Annie Proulx: Hey! There’s that ‘I can picture that town’ writing style. I guess I enjoy books that put me there in the story…To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. ‘One of those ‘Must Read Before You Die’ books. I was in love with all the characters. And finally: Anything by James Lee Burke. Good books don’t have to be literary, even a thriller can entertain you and lift you up for that quick-fix feeling. Wading through books for pretension’s sake is a waste of time, don’t you think? I dig his Louisiana heartland plots, and his passively malevolent baddies. (And please try any of Robert Crais’ ‘Elvis Cole’ books…)
7. Tag, you’re it… Thanks, Jill, for the task. Hmmm. I guess Neen, because I like her taste in reading, even though it differs from mine, and maybe Lee, because his Pa wrote one.

In Cape Town, there are these different pockets of people. You get the obvious contrasts of informal settlements (shacks lined up back to back, made of anything, such as corrugated iron, old signposts, bits of plastic and cardboard, and ‘recycled’-stolen-building materials) and mini palaces, complete with swimming pools, tennis courts and stables up on the slopes of the mountain.

Then you get the less immediately visible lines separating very similar people. What Apartheid in all its meaningless evil tried to do, humans in all their fears, national pride and loyalties have contrived to succeed. You get areas where Portuguese South Africans live, and similarly neighbourhoods where Greeks, Jewish people, Muslims, Indians, Lebanese, Congolese, Nigerians and practically any nationality you could name have set up small versions of their homelands. See, its not enough to draw a ‘black/white’ line here. Over the centuries millions have come here, and call it home.

Obviously the need is to address the separate development policies of the past, and this is happening, so that all may have the same opportunities, access to the same facilities, and educational institutions, and of course the poor need to be fed, and ultimately liberated from the cycles of poverty through restitution and support from both Government and community.

That said, there are these funny places, where time seems to operate differently. Pool Halls where young men with ridiculously sparse moustaches and mullets strut and pose. Where the young women never left that time in the eighties when ruched denim was the rage.

All I wanted to do was to buy a pair of takkies.

Takkies are trainers, or sports shoes. I am reduced to wearing a pair with holes. They were bought after a rainstorm last year. My only boots were wet, so I bought some shoes rather than squelch around prune-footed the whole day. Considering they were of communist bloc quality, they lasted well, but the time has come to replace them.

I trawled every shoe shop in the mall. I wept over sale tables, sobbed over racks and racks of unsuitable footwear, and cursed quietly as I came across great styles that were either preposterously overpriced, or only available in size 12 and up. I have wide small feet (you know what they say about men like that: they need short wide shoes…), and all I wanted was a pair of trainers, not in white or beige. White shoes remind me of being a kid, and riding around on my bike or skateboard trying to scuff them up when they were too clean. Beige shoes are sort of like saying, I hereby submit to middle age. I will now wear these things until I segue to wearing slippers out in public.

I found black trainers, leather-look, that would have had me looking like one of those mullet specials, or a cyber goth, and shiny ones abounded in every shop. Who the heck designs metallic-look takkies, for Pete’s sake? Ferrari takkies, in red? There were none suitable. At the moment thin shoes, the sort known as ‘sand shoes’ in Scotland, or ‘pumps’ in England are in. They make me look like I’ve been standing in a bucket of water and my feet have shrunk.

Finally, I came across a really great pair. They had my size. I tried them on. They were like shoe nirvana. They were a neutral grey and light blue, with navy stripes. They were inexpensive and comfortable. I wanted them. I showed them to Neen, who was elsewhere buying children’s clothes (for our children- she’s not that small) who immediately dashed my hopes.

‘They’re women’s shoes’. She said. ‘Definitely women’s shoes’. I looked again. Fair enough, they were on a shelf amongst what were obviously feminine shoes. But couldn’t the shelf packers have made an error? Too late! The seeds of doubt were sown. I knew, even as I tried to convince myself that no-one would ever know the difference, that I could no longer in good faith wear the things.

Do I thank Neen? Do I regret asking for her opinion? If I had bought them, would I have strolled about with the discomforting feeling of something unplaceable being not quite right?

I came home, a gentle breeze wafting through the hole in my shoes, and resigned myself to keeping them going until next time we go shopping…

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?